


Cigarette Smoke & Snark, Vol. 2

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Batdad, Gen, In more ways than one, Jason can't drive and shouldn't be allowed to try, Jason is a little shit, Jason is a strong independent Robin who don't need no Batman, Jason needs a hug and he's going to get one, Jason's back, Joker is a true Monster Clown, Santa Hood, Stagg is a dick, do not copy to another site, every van the militia has is in fact a clown car, god help us all, guess who's back back again, he experimented on chimps and this shall not stand, it's a Robin rite of passage to be kidnapped, well that got sad fast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2020-12-14 12:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 51
Words: 45,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21016004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Now with 50% more shenanigans.





	1. Roomba Wars

**Author's Note:**

> So on account that this all got horribly out of control, the only thing going into CS&S (now vol. 1!) will be the remainder of 'Homeostasis'. I HIGHLY recommend that you read that collection first, or you're going to be confused as to who people are and what's happening. Lost? I am happy to help you, just ask.

People don’t roll into the computer room very often. Jimmy likes it that way. They chatter. They distract him. They...touch things. Usually the only people that come in are the Knight, people asking something for the Knight because he’s busy, and Frank, because Frank worries. He brings food. He’s allowed in whenever he wants. Everyone else...please go away.

The rubber ducky (a Batman ducky, for Reasons) looms judgmentally as he reaches for his thermos. The stuff in the thermos is green. It’s probably not healthy. There’s enough caffeine in it to kill a child. (Mark will murder him if he finds it.) BUT the Green fuels him onwards to greatness...or at least a new and improved tracking system. Suck it, Batmobile. You won’t dodge these missiles.

Something beeps. Jimmy’s initial reaction is panic; who touched something? What’s beeping? Beeping is bad. He didn’t hear anyone come in, though…

“Sir?” No answer. “Riley? Riley, if that’s you, get out. You knocked my duck into the Unreachable Void last time you were here.”

He turns around, because to be fair to Riley, he can’t exactly...say anything...and sees...yeah, nothing. No one’s here--what’s that?

A Roomba rolls under one of the tables, probably sucking up Cheeto crumbs and bits of copper wire. Huh. When did they get a Roomba?

Someone, at some point, has spray-painted the, uh, the logo on its back. Sooooo is this, like, the communal Roomba? Man, he needs to go outside more.

Whelp. It can do its Roomba-ly duty and get him food. He traps it under the table, writes, _please send food to computer room_ on a sticky note, and slaps the sticky note on that bad boy. 

Food doesn’t come. Jimmy resigns himself to being surrounded by ungrateful bastards.

* * *

The Roomba returns a week later. Jimmy ignores it, at first, because whatever little robot dude, but then he spots a sticky note. It’s not his sticky note; his are green, this thing is boring white. And his handwriting is blocky and neat. This new writing would fit on a Slayer album cover.

_The Roomba is not a messenger, do not use it as such._

Fuck you, man. Don’t let it go around unattended, then.

He should just leave it alone. He should just let it go on about its business. But. It’s just...well…

He can’t not do things, okay. It’s like...if there’s a big, red button that says DO NOT PUSH, he **has** to push it.

So he hurries up and scrawls a new request for food, swaps notes, and continues on his merry--nonoNO don’t make that noise! Don’t make that noise! That’s the Bad Noise!

Begging doesn’t silence the computer. Neither does cradling the monitor and humming a lullaby. Smacking it works, though, so. Sometimes, being a jerk is the right choice.

The Roomba hasn’t left yet. This means he can add a nice, passive-aggressive smiley face to his request.

If he dies, he dies.

* * *

Jimmy’s forgotten all about the Roomba when the little asshole stabs him in the ankle.

Literally, someone’s taped a butter knife to it and when it comes in, he’s in the way and it stabs him.

Wow.

There’s a new note on the top of it. This one is a little angrier-sounding, but it’s still the same handwriting.

_Don’t put things on the Roomba._

Jimmy wonders, a little, if the owner put the knife here or if somebody else did it. Doesn’t matter.

_YOU’RE NOT MY MOM._

What? They’re not. Besides, it’s not like-shit. Hang on, Batman Ducky, he’s comin’ for you, buddy!

* * *

The Roomba War goes on for another month before Jimmy gets the idea to...play with...the thing.

And by play with, he means rig it to spit confetti when the Enemy Writer plucks off the sticky note to reply.

He’s just gathering his materials when Antoine comes in, bag of Ruffles in hand.

“Are you gonna share?”

“I might. Boss wants to--what are you doing?”

“So I tried to use the Roomba to get food once,” he explains, “but some jackass got all sanctimonious at me about it, and it’s been a month, and I’m going to win.”

Antoine looks at him like he’s just won the Dumbass of the Year award.

“Win what.”

“Life. I’m gonna get this baby to spit confetti when they pull off the note.”

“And you don’t know who it is.”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

He comes over, offers the Ruffles, and picks up the note. This can wait for a second; the Ruffles are cheesy Ruffles and therefore take precedence.

His appetite vanishes when Antoine starts laughing. That’s bad. That has to be bad.

“What’s happening?” Why is he laughing? “Do you know who it is?”

“Yup.”

Shit.

“Is it Mark? Please, God, tell me it’s not Mark. I’m beggin’ you, man, don’t make it be Mark.”

“It’s not Mark.”

“Riley?”

“No.”

Uh…

“It’s not you, is it?” That wouldn’t be so bad. He won’t suffer later. And, well, he’s right here, within smacking range.

“You should be so lucky.” Oh God. “That’s the boss’s handwriting.”

WHAT.

No. No, no, no, no, that’s not...no. The Knight just e-mails him about stuff, he doesn’t use _sticky notes_ on a _Roomba_, come on, that’s absurd.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope.” Antoine pats his head. “You can keep the Ruffles. You’ll need them after you get confetti on him.”

There’s been a change of plans.

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh. Good luck.”

He’s gone before Jimmy can ask him what he wanted, but honestly, he does not care. He hurries up and sets the Roomba oh-so-gently on the ground, pats it lovingly, and sends it on its way.

That could have been so bad.

But man, it was still worth it.

THE END


	2. Presence

Jason tries to lever himself off the floor, honest-to-God can’t, and ends up falling back, coughing hard and unable to care anymore. Everything hurts (crowbars will do that to you) ‘n he just…he can’t…

**Beep. Beep. Beep.**

He’s going to die. He knows he is, ‘n he guesses he should be scared, but…he’s tired. He’s scarcely conscious ‘n everything hurts ‘n he wants it to stop. Wants to sleep without hearing laughter under the bed.

The numbers blur-five minutes? Five seconds? Who knows-and he closes his eyes. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t…doesn’t matter…

_Jason?_

Huh?

He pulls his eyes open halfway. Mom’s there, but she looks…she looks like she used to. Healthy. **Happy.**

“Mom?”

_Shh, baby, try not to talk._

He swallows, or tries to, and tries to muster the strength to sit up and hug her. He can’t. He can’t do it.

Few minutes. Tha’s all, few more minutes.

_Oh, Jay. My sweet boy, you’ve grown up, look at you…_ Her eyes are sparkling like she’s gonna cry but she’s smiling at him anyway. _Look at you._

He coughs again, eyes squeezed shut against the pain, and she runs her fingers through his hair like she used to do when he was sick. Still helps.

_Just hold on, sweetheart._

He ‘preciates it, he does, but he saw the timer. Saw what it was ‘tatched to. He knows.

“M’gonna be with you, right?” Talking hurts, sends pain sweeping through his chest. “Mom–”

_Shh, shh, baby, it’s not time. Not for you._ She keeps petting his head, fingers trembling and cold. _My sweet boy…I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you._

“Don’ go–”

_Shh, shh. Just hold on. Someone’s coming._

“Hurts.”

_I know. I know it. It’ll be alright, you’ll be alright._

He believes her, really, at least ‘bout that part.

“’Kay,” he breathes. She kisses his forehead and he closes his eyes, lets his head fall into her hand. “Okay, Mama…”

**Beep. Beep. Beep.**

THE END


	3. Living on a Prayer

One day, when Antoine is old and wrinkled and spending his days sitting on a sunny balcony with his grand-nieces and nephews and whatever neighborhood urchins they’ve found at his feet, he will suffer a sudden recollection of shrieking and of fervently thanking the creator of the Oh Shit handle. He knows he will, because it happens now.

The Arkham Knight is a skilled individual. Antoine acknowledges this. Maybe not so much when he’s been hung off a gargoyle (then the boss is just a pointy-eared asshole), but the rest of the time, yeah. Guy knows what he’s doing.

But he can’t drive to save his life. He can drive to end it, maybe, but not save it.

Antoine didn’t know this until it was way, way too late. He had been the designated driver from the beginning, because the boss had been spending a lot of time with his laptop and then it had been a matter of appearances for potential recruits and **then** it had just stuck. Antoine drives, the boss gets shotgun, everyone else shuts the hell up and doesn’t touch the stereo.

Then. Then had come…the Incident.

The Incident had been entirely the fault of a piece of rogue shrapnel. There had been blood and moving his right shoulder any which way had hurt like a mother. It wasn’t overly dangerous, just…painful. Really, really painful. Which had led to him being dumped in the passenger’s seat, frisked for the keys, and left to settle in for a long ride back. He had been looking forward to it, a little. It was warm in the jeep, he had the excuse of being injured to let him turn off his radio and ignore the potential clusterfuck back at base…

“You’re not dying over there, are you?”

“’ll be fine, boss. Bleeding’s almost stopped already.”

“Hrm.” The jeep wasn’t starting. Looking back, he should have taken that as the omen that it was. “How fast does this thing go?”

Why should he know? He was a firm believer in ‘going the speed limit’ and ‘not careening off a cliff by accident’.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Batman’s vehicle can reach speeds of up to two hundred and nine miles per hour,” the boss said, gloved hand ghosting over the jeep’s speedometer, “but it has a booster that can propel it close to three hundred for short distances.”

“I don’t think this goes that fast, sir.”

“Hrm.”

And that had been the end of it. Antoine had adjusted his sunglasses, settled into the seat, and wondered if he could enjoy a glass of bourbon after getting stitches. If he forwent the painkillers, maybe-JESUS ON A SALTINE-!

The jeep lurched forward with an angry snarl, needle crawling steadily upwards.

“Uh, sir?” He understood, in that moment, what people meant when they said they suffered motion sickness. Trees weren’t supposed to blur like that. “Sir, you, uh, you **can** drive, right?”

“Of course.”

“You’re, uh, you’re real sure?”

The needle inched higher. Antoine settled for gripping the Oh Shit handle with all his might and seriously considering religion.

“You look terrible.”

**WHAT. EYES ON THE ROAD, YOU FOOL.**

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? You look green. Were you poisoned?”

He was not ashamed for considering saying ‘yes’. Maybe it would return them to a lower speed.

Eh, probably not.

“M’good, boss.” If he puked, he decided, he was aiming for the bastard responsible. “It’s just the light.”

Please. Please look at the road. Please look at the-was that a gap?

It was. These mountain roads were more like…treeless areas of dirt…and the ‘potholes’ were better described as ‘small canyons’. Antoine had the good sense to go around them. The boss? Appeared to be aiming for this one.

“Sir,” he said, because clearly he was the one who didn’t flunk driving school, “sir, I wouldn’t bank on-BOSS!”

And then they were. Flying.

**Ohnoohnoohnoohno—**

**PLUNK.**

Antoine did a quick check to make sure his limbs were all there and in one piece. They were. He didn’t realize how much he appreciated the sound of tires rolling over gravel until now.

“You’re sure you weren’t poisoned?”

“Uh-huh.” His life was still cycling before his eyes. “I’m sure, boss.”

“Huh.” The jeep suddenly took a sharp turn. Antoine would later swear it was up on two wheels, but at the time he was mostly just trying not to throw up. “If you say so.”

The rest of the ride may have been uneventful. Or maybe his brain just shut down to spare him the horror. Whichever it was, he only registered that he was still alive when the jeep screeched to a stop-stop? Oh, thank God.

He stumbled out of the death machine and onto the blessed safety of the dirt.

“Antoine-shit, you’re green. You get hit with a poison dart or something?”

“He drives like a maniac.” Mark laughed at him, because Mark sucked. “Do not let him near a set of keys.”

“Pfft. You’re fine. You’re like my dad-anyone else gets behind the wheel and they’re a danger to the road. You just don’t like being taken for a ride, that’s all.”

“You ride with him, then-oh, boy.”

“You puke on me, and you’re getting back in that jeep. Let’s go.”

His stomach rolled, but he didn’t puke. Barely.

Never. Again.

THE END


	4. Stagg's Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stagg’s a dick and I don’t feel bad. He lived. He’s fine. This *could* be canon, I guess; this is based on the tape you use to obtain Stagg’s fingerprints on the airship, so yeppers, you can go to YouTube to watch this (mostly) play out with no dialogue.

Simon Stagg has interacted with the Arkham Knight very little. For better or worse, he’s mostly had the opportunity to speak with Jonathan Crane. But he’s seen the man, once or twice, and his soldiers are _always_ milling about, getting in the way and demanding information that, quite frankly, isn’t any of their business.

He thinks he should have taken better precautions, now. Made a dummy Cloudburst, or rigged the damn thing to...to...he doesn’t know. Something. Anything to make the man _not_ storm his airship.

He had five minutes’ warning, and he’d hoped to get the booby traps operational. He’s a few keystrokes away from that when a black-gloved hand slams against the desk next to the keyboard.

**“Found you.”**

Simon’s never heard the man speak. His voice is robotic, two or three layers of distortion making it sound like something out of the horror films his daughter loved as a teenager.

“I-I--”

The hand moves to his shirt and he’s dragged towards the railing, bent backwards until his pen tumbles from his pocket to the floor below.

“Oh, God--”

**“Think he’ll survive if I throw him over?”**

“PLEASE--”

“He might not stay conscious, boss,” a man says from near the computer. Then, “Booby traps? Wow, man. Screw you, too.”

The hand gripping his shirt tightens, fabric drawing together enough to choke him. Simon scrabbles at it, nails scraping thick leather.

**“Shame.”** The Knight hurls him to the floor by the desk. **“Where are the damn files, Stagg?”**

“F-files?” Playing dumb is his only defense. It might even work.

Or not; the Knight seizes him again, half-carries-half-drags him towards the stairs, and throws him down them. He can see more soldiers below, and the one from the computer desk looking awkwardly apologetic.

**“I’m not an idiot,”** the Knight snarls, coming down the stairs towards him. **“And I don’t appreciate you thinking otherwise. You can tell me and be out of your misery, or my men down there can drag it out of you piece. By. Piece.”**

“I don’t know what files you’re talking about,” he pleads, putting up a hand in a desperate attempt to ward the man off. “Please--”

**“Really?” **The Knight tilts his head and laughs. It’s not a nice sound. **“Hear that, boys? Mister Stagg here has memory problems.”**

A jeer goes up downstairs and somebody shouts, “I read a knock on the head can shake things loose!”

“No, no--”

Too late.

**“I read somethin’ similar.”**

And then he’s tumbling down more stairs, limbs flailing against the railing and finger snagging-and then cracking horribly-when it catches between the steps.

“I can’t access them!” Maybe that will work. “It takes three fingerprints, and my assistants are either gone or dead, thanks to you baboons--”

**“I’m sure the fingerprints don’t need to be alive,”** the Knight growls. **“Or, for that matter, attached to a hand. Somebody stand by with a bone saw.”**

God, _no_, make it _stop!_

“I’m not telling you!” he screams, because maybe that’ll be enough? He’s not worth the effort, he’s just _not_. “Leave me alone!”

The Knight laughs again and follows after him.

**“They always say that,”** he says. **“And they’re always wrong-well, well. Isn’t that interesting.”**

He stops just above Simon’s head, helmet flickering. Somebody prods him with their boot.

“He looks squishy.”

“These money-types are always squishy,” somebody else says authoritatively. “They get manicures and shit. My wife uses less lotion than these bastards.”

“We gotta be careful with him.” Bless this one. “If he kill him by accident, he’s useless, and Scarecrow’ll start bitchin’ about ‘my files’ and ‘useless cretins’ and blah, blah, blah.”

Never mind.

“Yeah. If I never have to hear him lecture again, it’ll be too soon-shit. He can’t hear me, can he?” His friends laugh at him. “Shut up! It’s a valid concern.”

“Whoo-ooo-ooo, Scarecrow’s gonna get ya.”

“Fuck off.” There’s a space a few feet away. He shifts towards it, just an inch or two, and this time the boot to the ribs sends him rolling onto his back. “None of that.”

“I have money-like. Like Bruce Wayne! I’ll share, I promise, just don’t hurt me--”

“Oh my God, shut up.” Another prod, this one a little firmer. “Can’t stand a sniveler...think we should test how hard we can hit him? For, uh.” The man looks around and spreads his arms. “Science?”

**“As long as you get viable information out of him, I don’t care what you do,” **the Knight says suddenly. **“When you’ve got everything, shut him up. I don’t care how. Just don’t drag it out, Batman’s on his way.”**

Batman? Batman’s coming? Thank God, he’ll be saved!

“You got it, boss.”

“Yeah, by the time we’re done, we’ll have his grandma’s first boyfriend’s name!”

**“You’d better.”** The Knight turns away. **“Drouot! Ages! With me. The rest of you, get to work.”**

“If you cut anything off, keep track of it,” the awkwardly apologetic one says as he steps around the crowd to follow. “If you lose a finger, you’re the one checking drainage grates to find it. And put it on ice!”

What? No! They wouldn’t. Would they?

He looks at his throbbing index finger. Above him, there’s a fresh burst of chatter.

“So how bad do you think we should rough him up?”

“He’ll crack soon. Betcha that’s his first broken bone.” The speaker crouches down and a switchblade pops out inches from his nose. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun, though.”

Adrenaline kicks in and he surges to his feet, tries to run. He doesn’t get anywhere; yet another man grabs his arm and slams him back down. His head bounces against the tiles and somewhere, there’s the sound of the chimps shrieking. They sound excited.

“Did I say you could run?” the man with the knife growls. “I didn’t say you could go **anywhere**!”

“Please--”

“Shut up. You think you’re hurting now? You got no clue how bad we can make you hurt. First, I’m gonna cut off your fingers. S’like cutting a carrot. Even makes the same kinda sound.”

“Drouot said--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make sure they don’t roll away,” the man says impatiently, presses his knife to Simon’s right pinky finger. “Relax. **Now. **Where. Are. The files?”

“I’m not telling you troglodytes anything!”

“S’like the boss said,” the man says easily, shaving a few hairs off his knuckle with the knife, “they always say that. Last chance, or I’m gonna start with the fingers, then the hand, and we’ll see how far I have to go before you share.”

THE END


	5. Bright Colors Mean Danger

“Sit here and watch the lair, John. You’re fuckin’ useless with that ankle, John. Whatever. Like I can’t be in charge of the duct tape or something.”

Halloween sucks. Crane’s out causing mass mayhem, which means everyone with half a brain is hunkered down out of the way.

…

Amazingly, Gotham’s still jumping. You’d think they’d learn. Not that John can say much of anything-his stupid coworkers decided tonight would be a good night to get a jump-start on their hostage-taking skills, what with all the confusion out there. John half-hopes they run into the freak.

Well. He hopes that for a minute or two, but really, he wouldn’t wish Crane on anyone. ‘Cept maybe Batman.

He’s got a busted ankle, though-would you believe, he fell down the stairs two nights ago-so he’s here, holding down the fort and listening to the screaming outside. That **might** have been an, ‘OH GOD GETTHEMOFF!’ but he can’t be sure and he doesn’t really care.

The door flies open and the victors return with--

\--oh. Oh shit no. Shit no. Please God let that be a…it isn’t. NOOOOOO!

“Put it back, put it back!” he hisses, lurching up from the chair and hobbling frantically towards the teenager they’ve dumped against the wall. “Not that one! You don’t want that one!”

“Oh, my God, it’s fine.” Greg claps him on the shoulder and kicks the kid’s foot. “See? We’ll give ‘im an hour to get nice and panicked, ask for his parents’ number, and get paid.”

“That’s Robin, you idiot!”

“Yeah. We saw a couple’a Dorothys too.”

“No. **Batman’s** Robin. The one that brings down busted knees and gargoyle hangings! So put him back where you found him!”

Greg frowns, bends down and pulls the gag outta the kid’s mouth. The boy spits a few times, scraping his tongue against his teeth, and scowls at them.

“You Robin, kid?”

More scowling. If looks could kill…

“Chirp, chirp, motherfuckers.”

* * *

Things only get worse from there. John’s vote to throw the kid back to the street is overruled because he works with morons who think kidnapping Batman’s kid is an accomplishment. Unfortunately, re-gagging him proves impossible-Greg’s nursing a swollen, bleeding finger and the gag is lying on the floor nearby. Robin’s now got a lump on the back of his head, but that hasn’t shut him up.

“--shove that pole so far up your dick you’ll be tasting metal! You hear me?”

“I thought Robin was the nice one.”

“The last one was nice. This one’s an asshole.”

“I’ll tear you a new asshole when I get outta here!” the kid spits. “You’ll be begging for Batman to come save you!”

“I told you to put him back.”

“Too late now. Go big or go home.”

It’s either stay here and wait for Batman, or go out there and probably die. At least with Batman, he might come out of this without clawing out his eyeballs.

He’s so throwing them under the bus, though, when Bats does get here.

“C’mon kid, knock it off.”

Robin turns his head to glare at him, pauses, and grins. That is a slasher smile and it does not look right on a teenage boy.

Then the lights go out.

“Aww, craaaap…”

“It’s the freaking Bat!”

**CRUNCH.**

When the lights come back, Robin is free-oh, Jesus, no-most of his cohorts are on the ground, and the Goddamned Batman is looming in the doorway. John holds his hands up.

“I surrender.”

This turns out to be a bad idea. The others are trussed up and left in the middle of the room. He gets to be carted outside and thrown in the back with--

\--oh. Oh no.

“Really.” Jonathan Crane uses the top of Kitty Richardson’s head to shove his glasses back up his nose. “You pulled over and made us wait in the car so that you could pick up your child from daycare.”

“Fight me, Crane--”

“Robin.” Batman sighs. “No.”

Maybe he can get a new job…

“We kidnapped him,” he says. Crane looks deeply unimpressed and Richardson sighs.

“Bless your heart,” Crane says dryly. Richardson snorts. They both stare at him and he shrinks as far away from them as possible. Well. There goes that job application.

Batman settles in behind the wheel and Robin clambers into the passenger’s seat, rubbing his wrists.

“Arkham?”

“Hn.”

Worst. Halloween. Ever.

THE END


	6. Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exploration of what Jason could have been up to during the events of ‘The Cult’; those who haven’t read it, you SHOULD, but all you really need to know is that Batman spends a good chunk of it being brainwashed by, well, a cult and that Robin!Jason pimp-slaps him back to reality at one point. For this one-shot-thingy, Batman is missing, Jason is trying to track him down; he thinks it’s Scarecrow, due to the homeless population acting off.

To look at her, Kitty Richardson isn’t a threat. She’s no bigger’n he is, with big eyes that scream, **ram a pen through that guy’s eyeball? Me? Whatever do you mean?**

Jason knows better, knows to be grateful for the glass between them. In here, the innocence is gone and it’s like bein’ at the zoo with the lion watchin’ your every move. He’s still got a scar, red ‘n angry, on his lower ribs. She’d gone at him with a sickle and to be honest, she might have disemboweled him if he’d been that much slower.

The orderly hovered a bit at first, but he’s gone now (well, out of sight, anyway, he’s sure he’s in the other room), leaving him feeling Batman’s absence more than ever. Bruce has never left him-intentionally-alone with them. He has instructions not to engage.

But Bruce isn’t here and he doesn’t have a choice.

They both know it.

“Past your bedtime, isn’t it, sweetie?”

He’s not sure which would be worse-getting to see Crane (bastard’s in solitary for **riling** an orderly, the guy had been found slamming his head into a bloody pulp against a wall), or being stuck with Richardson. He thinks they’re both awful, in the end. At least they’re not both here…

“Hilarious.”

“It’s an honest question!” She grins at him and tips the chair back, head tilted to the side. “What can I do for you, little bird?” The grin widens. “This isn’t about the old boy being missing, is it?”

“You’re just not worth his time,” he says, lifting his chin and willing his voice not to shake. She raises an eyebrow.

“News travels quick, don’t you know that?”

“He’s not missing–”

“Stop lying!”

The sudden scream scares him, he’ll admit, and it’s an effort to stay where he is. She can’t get to him. He could take her if she could. She just startled him. That’s all.

The chair drops back and Richardson stands up. She’s **little**, the uniform hanging off her and rolled so she doesn’t trip. That doesn’t stop him from thinking about the last time she was here, about the security footage of her lunging over a doctor’s desk and clawing his tongue out in bloody chunks with a spork.

Apparently the guy talked too much.

“You’re here alone, with **me**. He’s missing. We both know it.”

They both look at the holes at the top of the glass. Richardson can’t get up there-like it matters anyway-but Jason still wishes they weren’t there. Joker doesn’t have them-he managed to smuggle a gas grenade in once, got it through-and Jason…he’s not sure Richardson won’t do something similar.

But she can’t reach. He’s very grateful.

“Want to find out if I can jump that high?”

“No.” He straightens up. “A man was found wandering around Crime Alley with the same symptoms your boyfriend’s toxin causes.”

“There’s a lot of those. There’s always someone who slips through the cracks of a mass…experiment. I’ll be sure to tell him you found one, though. We’ll come do a follow-up.”

“The police have him.”

“Spoilsport.”

“And it’s not one of those. Nothing’s coming up in the screening, which means it’s a new batch.” She shrugs. “He mentioned Batman.”

“Nobody shuts up about Batman, dear.”

“When did you get out.”

She laughs at him and saunters over to the glass.

“It’s flu season, sweetie. We’ll be here-barring Christmas with my parents, maybe, we’ll see-for a few months yet.”

“There’s ways out of here if you get bored.”

“Mm-hm.”

“What did you do to Batman.”

“And this is why you’re the sidekick,” she purrs, pressing one hand to the glass in front of his face. “We didn’t do anything. I’ll prove it for you. Take a skin scraping from your friend. If it’s one of Jonathan’s, there’ll be a green ring; real light, like that useless yellow-green Crayola crayon. If it’s not, you’re pulling on the wrong worm.”

“You’re lying.”

“When have you known him not to take credit for his work?” Fair. Literally everyone in here has an ego the size of Canada. “Really, Robin, I thought you knew better than that…” Her fingers trace the glass in front of his cheek. “But maybe that’s the other one I’m thinking of.”

Bullshit–

**WHAM!**

The glass shudders and he flinches. She laughs again, eyes shining, and turns away with a lazy, “Every time…Michael, I think I’ve talked to this young man all I want to.”

He’s not surprised to see the orderly step in two seconds later.

“Hands on your head, you know the routine.”

“You should be nicer to me,” she complains. “Remember the last one?”

The guard snorts and brushes by Jason to head for the door.

“Yeah, and lucky me, Crane’s in solitary. Think I’m good.”

Richardson cocks her head, eyes wide, and chirps, “Hullo, Jonathan.”

They both twist-Jason, at least, narrowly avoiding a cricked neck-to see nothing. Richardson promptly starts to giggle, even when the guard pulls her hands behind her back.

“One of these days you’re not going to look, and he’s going to be right behind you.”

“I always look. Let’s go.”

“That’s what the last one said…have fun, Robin! Good luck.”

THE END


	7. The Monster Never Dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a scene in Cujo, where Cujo is rabid but not RABID, and he sees his boy and manages to not eat him, because Cujo is a Good Dog. It’s basically the last time Cujo is fully himself. This is sort of inspired by that, and takes its title from a line in that book.

Bruce is in control.

For the moment.

It’s easier, with the heightened threat of being caught and killed,

**They don’t stand a chance, not a CHANCE, it would be so easy--**

and right now, as long as he stays still and quiet, he’s in control.

Admittedly, the sentry gun is helping. The medic grumbled about it being in his way, but ultimately he caved and let the others set it up near the door. It’s bathing said doorway in red light, but he’s sure it will swivel to him if he hops out of the vent now.

**Use it against them--**

NO.

Jason’s asleep, has been for at least an hour now. He’s snoring softly, arm draped carefully over his ribs and his left cheek buried in the pillow. He looks his age now that he’s asleep.

That hurts.

Jason’s not alone, which is probably for the best, but his current bodyguard is dozing in his chair, laptop hibernating on his knees. He’s been here since before Bruce got here, and by the look of him, he’s been here for a** long time** before Bruce got here. His hair’s a tousled mess and he’s got the beginnings of a five o’ clock shadow.

Bruce could take him, easy. Blind the sentry gun, drop down silently, take his rifle--

**STOP.**

He won’t. But he **could**.

A medic comes in, takes the laptop away and, muttering darkly about overexhaustion and _if both of you go down I’m demanding an all-expenses-paid vacation to Rome_, flicks out a fleece blanket to drape over the bodyguard. He doesn’t stir. The medic sighs, leans over to look at Jason’s IV, and growls something that sounds like (is, it is), “Rip Batman’s limbs off and shove them down his damn **throat**, that sorry sonofabitch…”

Joker cackles. Bruce, with years of practice under his belt, ignores him.

The medic leaves and Bruce figures he should do the same, but...five minutes. He can keep a handle on this for five minutes.

Jason twists, murmuring something that sounds like _please don’t leave me_, but he mercifully falls silent. Bruce wants, desperately, to go down there and comfort him, or at least just tuck him in a bit like he did when he was little, but.

But.

**Wake him up, slit his throat, watch the light go out of his eyes, it would be so easy--**

He can’t take the risk.

He lingers for another few minutes, just watching, before the giggling starts. 

**And it would be easy, wouldn’t it, to drop down, rouse him. Would he recognize the danger, or just see Bruce? Would there be that lovely little shock of betrayal--**

Bruce shudders back to control. He’s still in the vent. Jason’s still asleep. He’ll be all right.

**Think he’d beg for dear old Bat-daddy?** Joker teases. **He did the first time I put the electricity to him…**

Bruce takes one last look at Jason before turning away and leaving the way he came. Joker doesn’t stop laughing.

THE END


	8. Bullet Dodged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small, small world…
> 
> Or, pickpocketing is a truly dangerous game.

Jason knows an easy mark when he sees one. You see a suit-a nice one, not a ‘probably scabbed off’a mob hit’ one-down here? Tourist, idiot, or transplant. ‘Specially at night.

Either way, there is a wallet in that pocket and Jason has just called dibbs.

The guy’s on the phone, which means he’s nice and distracted. Good. He readies his ‘gee, sorry, mister!’, does a quick check for cops, and goes for it.

Two things happen very quickly. One, Jason’s fingers brush what feels like a syringe. Two, the man’s phone-less hand has shot down and gripped Jason’s wrist like a vice.

“I’ll have to call you back, Kitty. Something’s come up.”

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no--

The phone vanishes into the jacket and shiny glasses, eyes obscured with a purple glare from the ‘pawn shop’ they’ve stopped in front of, gaze down at him.

“Well, _well_. What might you be doing, child?”

Okay. Sometimes he can sucker people into feeling bad for him. It’s his only defense at this point-his fingers are still brushing the syringe and he doesn’t want to know what it might be meant to hold.

“M’sorry, sir, s’just…” He gulps, wills his eyes to get as big and watery as possible. “My little sister’s real sick ‘n we can’t afford a doc--”

“Spare me the theatrics.” Shit. This asshole’s no tourist, no dumbass urban explorer or nothin’. The glasses seem to grow brighter and he’s tugged along. “They’re not convincing.”

He risks tugging at his wrist, just a little, and the boney fingers tighten to a painful degree. The man chuckles, a raspy noise that sets Jason’s teeth on edge.

_ **“Come along.”** _

“I’ll scream,” he threatens, heart pounding because this isn’t going to end well, he just **knows** it, “I’ll scream, there’s a cop on this corner, I’ll tell ‘im you’re kidnapping me--”

“Go ahead.” What. “I will tell him that you are an escaped patient of mine that I fortuitously stumbled upon whilst making a charity call. And they will believe me, I assure you.”

He changes tactics.

“Lemme go, m’sorry, I’ll put the word out so no one else’ll try ta pickpocket ya, okay?”

“I know you’re wondering what the needle is for.” No. He is not **wondering**, he has lots of ideas and they’re all bringing back images of…of Mom, glassy-eyed and stiff on the yellow tiles. “You’re going to find out.”

NO NO NO--

He bites the bastard. **That** works; the vice-hand uncoils and Jason rips his hand out of the danger-pocket and **sprints** for it, worn sneakers pounding against the cracking pavement.

He doesn’t stop running until he reaches home.

THE END


	9. Traffic Jam (R&B's P)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at some point post R(&B’s P). Canonically, Jason really does have shotgun infinity; one of the tie-in comics has somebody getting booted to the back because ‘the boss always rides up front’. (Though said boss proceeds to blow right by them on a motorcycle a second later, so not that time, apparently.)

Jason’s been asleep for the hour and fifteen minutes they’ve been on the freeway. They’re barely moving, because why would they be, that’s so counter-intuitive. As Antoine flips from the Chili Peppers to Metallica to the Black Keys and back to the Peppers again, he thinks he’s a little jealous.

Traffic sucks.

“I spy, with my little eye, something blue.”

“That car that’s been right there with us for forty minutes, mention it again and I’ll kill you.”

“My phone’s dead and I’m bored.”

“Would you like to be dead, too? Because I can make that happen.”

He tries to like them. He tries so hard.

“Bullshit, you couldn’t even hit me.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Whichever one of you wakes the boss rides on the roof,” he warns. Instant silence, broken only by the radio going, _“Soyyyyyy un perdador…”_

In all honesty, Antoine kinda figures that if they haven’t woken him up by now, they’re not going to. Mark’s got him on strong painkillers, much to his irritation. They make him loopy, and between them and the injuries he needs those painkillers **for**…

At least he’s not screaming in his sleep as much. Not that it really matters; the nightmares are still there, just quiet. Twitches and shuddery gasps and, once, a half-choked, _“I don’t want this.”_

They all pretend not to notice.

But right now he’s out cold and apparently peaceful and Antoine doesn’t want to jinx it. He turns the radio down, just in case, and mentally invites the asshole trying to cut in line to fuck a bear trap. Then he flips him off, just to make sure he understands how annoying he is.

**Now** why are they not going? What’s happening...oh, come **on**. Really? Really? An accident?

They’re going to die in this car.

Fifteen minutes later, a game of Monopoly has begun in the back. Somebody’s probably going to be murdered before they even make it to the hotel.

Twenty-five minutes later, they’ve moved twenty feet, Frank is currently winning, and Jimmy’s being accused of cheating. He probably is. He always cheats at Monopoly. Not that it helps.

“Cars, cars, as far the eye can see,” the boss suddenly murmurs. Oh. How long has he been awake?

“Yessir.”

“We could get out and walk. Get us there faster.”

“Let’s not do that, sir.”

“Humph.” He fixes his sunglasses and pulls his hood back up. “Bullshit.”

He’s not wrong, is the annoying thing. Antoine wonders about the logistics of getting out, walking to a car at the front of the line, and, uh, trading.

…

Yeah, probably not. Oh, well.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, only half-meaning it. In the back, Jimmy’s apparently trying to teach Martin how to cheat at monopoly; Riley’s angry gestures can just be seen in the mirror. “You look awful.”

“Helpful.” He fusses with his sunglasses some more and raises his voice. “Customs ain’t gonna like it if somebody’s got a missing finger.”

“Customs won’t care if the finger’s on ice,” Mark says, and Antoine wonders if that’s true. Just, you know, out of curiosity. He likes collecting bits of game show-winning trivia.

“If any of you lose a finger, it’s going out the window. Knock it off.”

“Yessir.”

They don’t, not really, but the bickering lowers in volume and the boss must figure that’ll have to do, because he doesn’t say anything else. Up ahead, a window rolls down and the driver starts demanding that **somebody get this show on the road** and **I’m a very busy man, LET’S GO.**

If he keeps it up, Antoine’s going to tell him to zip it. Everyone’s miserable, man, shut up and cope.

He keeps it up. Of course he does. And his voice is so annoying.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

“Fuck him.”

“What are you doing--”

Stress relief.

He pushes the button for the window, watches it glide down, and leans out to shout, “I know you’re a dick, so shut the hell up!”

There. He feels better now.

Two minutes later, there’s pounding on the window.

“Now look what you did.”

“Don’t care.”

“He’s not going away.”

“No.”

He flips the guy off. The pounding continues, along with semi-muffled yelling. Jason sighs and settles further into his seat.

“You’re going to have to deal with him eventually.”

“Not really. He can’t get in.”

The laugh he gets in response is incredulous. What? It’s true. ‘Sides, there’s spit hitting the window and he doesn’t want that on his face.

“I’ll drive,” Jimmy says from the back. “Get out, fucker.”

“I could drive,” Martin says shyly. There’s a resounding **no** from all sides.

“I don’t trust any of you not to drive over the car in front of us,” the boss says, like he **wouldn’t**. “Roll the window down.”

Ugh.

He does it anyway, as little as possible.

“Hi.”

“GET OUT.”

He rolls the window back up. Trent bursts out laughing and Jason gives Antoine a look that translates to, **why are you Like This.**

“I’m not getting out.”

The man outside rattles the handle. Antoine makes himself more comfortable, takes a drink and turns his head to smile at him. Y’know. To make sure he feels acknowledged or whatever.

“If he smashes the window and drags you out, it’s your own fault.”

Yeah, yeah. Suuuuure.

“Ah, we’ll come to your rescue, buddy,” Trent says. That sounds so very ominous. “You know. Eventually.”

“Fuck you.”

“Here? Now? In front of all these people?”

He hates everyone in this car.

The man outside smacks the glass. Wow. He is determined. Jason buries his face in his hands and then, before Antoine can do anything to prevent it, Jimmy’s lunged forward and rolled the window all the way down.

Welp. Here they are.

“Did you need something?”

“OUT.”

Jimmy’s hand is flat over the window button. Antoine smashes it like a bug and he draws it back, cursing, only for Trent to lean forward to take his place. Wow. Wow, man. What happened to loyalty, he’d like to know?

“No.”

“RIGHT--shit.”

What-oh. Yeah. He’s seen Trent. And, uh, you know what, most people do think twice about fucking with the guy.

“Have a nice day!” he chirps, pries Trent’s sausage-fingers up enough to hit the button. “Good talk.” The man leaves. Antoine makes sure the doors are locked, just in case, and goes back to flipping through the radio stations. There’s still nothing on. “Thanks for the help, guys. Much appreciated.”

“Aww.” Frank leans over and ruffles his hair. Humph. “We gotta let you suffer a little. It builds character.”

Gee. How nice.

He settles for Shinedown. In the back, the Monopoly game gets back into the swing. Jason makes himself a little more comfortable, like he’s gonna go back to sleep, and murmurs, “Try to pass him when we get out of here. Cut him off and go, like, two miles under the speed limit.”

That sounds suspiciously like an order. And, well, he’s gotta follow orders. That’s sort of the whole Thing with orders.

“Yessir.”

THE END


	10. The Boogeyman is Immortal (but Tonight, He Sleeps)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how this turned out, but it does not spark joy. HEED THE WARNINGS: mentions of child prostitution, CSA. Nothing graphic, but you can’t miss them, either. Be good to yourself.

**Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.**

The hell is that noise?

Dove backtracks a few steps and–oh.

Oh, _shit_.

There’s what’s left of a man on the ground. His head’s long been blown to pieces, and the rest of him is just red.

The alley is red. There’s blood on the bricks and the dumpster and the corpse, and the cause of it-the Red Hood, because of course it is-is standing a little ways in, shooting an empty gun and juggling a girl; eleven, maybe, maybe younger, a lot of the Alley kids are always in that horrible in-between. She’s got her head buried in his shoulder, but she’s still and her arms and legs are hanging down and it crosses Dove’s mind that she’s not…alive anymore.

“Hood?” He doesn’t answer. His helmet’s on the ground, she notices, undamaged and out of the way like he put it there. “Hood, you okay?”

**Click. Click. Click. Click.**

Now that she’s closer, she can see that the corpse’s pants are down. The girl is wrapped in Hood’s jacket.

Oh.

“Hood,” she says again, a little softer this time. “Red. _Robin_. He’s dead, honey. C’mon. You’re outta bullets, kiddo, s’over.”

**Click. Click. Click.**

He doesn’t even seem to realize she’s there, but the girl, red hair hanging in a tangled mess down her back, stirs. Oh, good, she’s not dead.

“Mister Red?” One hand comes up and pulls at Hood’s collar. “Someone’s here.”

**Click. Click.**

She gives up on Hood for the moment, addresses the little girl instead.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Anna.” Dove’s guessing eleven; she’s just starting to get that gangly colt-look of preadolescence, but she’s still so small, not just malnourished, but **small**. “Anna Walker.”

“Okay.” The rain’s starting to fall, blood trickling through the cracks and towards the street. “Okay, honey, you’re okay…are you hurt?”

Hesitant nodding.

“I was hungry.”

Yeah. Yeah, Dove remembers that even after all these years.

“We’ll getcha somethin’ to eat real soon, okay?” Anna nods. “Good girl…Hood. C’mon, kiddo, wake up. S’over.”

**Click.**

He’s blank-faced and hollow-eyed and for a second or two, she’s not looking at the Red Hood, she’s looking at Robin, sitting quietly in a chair before a bullet sends him sprawling to the floor.

“You’re scaring Anna, sweetheart. Come on. Put the gun down.”

“He’s not gonna get up anymore.” He doesn’t turn his head or lower the gun. “I can’t let him get up anymore.”

“He won’t get up.” Not unless he’s a damn zombie, in which case that’s a different sorta problem. “You killed him, kid, now come on. S’over.”

His arm wavers and falls, gun dropping to the ground with a dull **clunk**. Dove moves a little closer, taps his arm.

“Need me to take her?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t freak out when she pulls the girl away. Up close, this ain’t her first rodeo; her makeup’s done right an’ everything. And Dove wants to be sick because what kind of worthless city is this, isn’t it ever gonna get better?

She’s not completely naked, at least; her mini-skirt and crop top are ruffled and ruined, now, with blood and grime, but she looks all right. Skinny, and a little bruised, and a lot scared, but nothing broken or out of joint or anything. She’s not **as** tiny as Dove thought, either. Not that it matters, or helps, but she’s not a complete waif. She’s barely readjusted Hood’s jacket around the girl’s shoulders when she starts to sniffle, tears making tracks through the bright red on her cheeks.

“Sh-sh, honey, you’re all right, s’over, you’re okay…”

She locks her arms around Dove’s neck and starts bawling into her shoulder. Dove combs her fingers through the girl’s hair and tugs the hood of the jacket up so she doesn’t get too wet.

Hood’s still standing very, very still, breath stuttering through cracked lips, and she wonders…

“Did you know him?”

He nods, heavy and slow.

“He was always sorry,” he whispers, “he was always so **fucking** sorry.”

She knows that type, too. They were never sorry, not really, and that…that made them worse, in the end. Hypocritical sons of flea-ridden mongrel **bitches**.

“Told you to go get ice cream, didn’t he.”

A quick, bitter smile flashes over Hood’s face.

“Not anymore.”

They’re silent, the only sound being the rain and the traffic and Anna’s muffled sobs.

“Police’ll be here soon,” she says, reaches over to pull on his sleeve. “Come on. He’s not getting back up.”

He picks up his gun, holsters it, and finally seems to register that it’s raining. A piece of brain matter wiggles free from the lumpy mass that used to be the head and lets the water carry it away.

No one ever tells you that mangled brains look an awful lot like raw hamburger.

“Let’s get you somethin’ to eat, honey,” she says to Anna, who doesn’t even respond. “You too, Hood, c’mon.” Hopefully he’ll go along with it for Anna’s sake. 

He scrubs a hand across his eyes, looking, all of a sudden, like a tired little boy, and nods, bends down to pull a wallet out of the tangled pants.

“Bastard owes me a sundae, anyway.”

THE END


	11. Out of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read the prequel comics (worth it because Alfred. They’re not bad in general but Alfred is the BEST.)
> 
> I do cherry-pick however. So this doesn’t COMPLETELY line up, but it’s close enough.

Joker hasn’t been back for a while. He broke out, Jason thinks, which means Boles comes down every couple of days to feed him and take up the slack a bit. Fortunately, he’s not creative, just an asshole, and he’s an idiot. Usually drunk. Why he’s made it as high up as he has is beyond Jason, but this is Arkham.

Jason’s just grateful Harley isn’t coming down as much. She **is** creative, and jealous, and he suffers no illusions that she doesn’t want to wind his intestines around a giant spool.

Boles is distracted today, for reasons unknown, and normally Jason wouldn’t care (he’s going to die down here, hopefully sooner rather than later), but…

There’s something shiny in his pocket. He almost doesn’t notice it, but the light catches it just so as Boles is leaning over the table. Knife. That’s a knife. Fucking idiot, doesn’t he realize these animals…

Eh, if Joker’s paying him, it doesn’t matter anyway. But. Knife. Sharp object.

Jason twists his fingers upwards a bit, feels the ropes around his arms. They’re not tight, and they’re not that thick; if Joker had used these at the beginning, Jason could’ve gotten out of them. Hell, when the clown’s here, they’re not in use at all; Boles is just paranoid and Harley’s a bitch.

Knife.

He might be able to…if Boles is here today, the Joker isn’t expected back for another couple’a days, at least…

He has to try. If he dies, well, he’s out of his misery and that’s fine. Death is better than this.

Boles is nowhere near gentle when he shoves the water bottle against Jason’s lips, and he nearly chokes. That’s okay, though, because the angle the man’s at means he can feel warm metal against his fingertips. He didn’t survive as a kid through being a shoddy pickpocket, either, and he gets enough of a grip to draw it from the pocket and slip it against his wrist.

Boles doesn’t notice.

Jason wants to laugh, or stop breathing because this is a set-up, Joker’s back after all and this is another one of his tricks, but…

But. But Boles leaves, flicks the light off like he always does so that Jason’s alone in the dark, breath ragged in his throat.

Death is preferable. If nothing else, maybe he can slit his own throat before they can get the knife away from him.

He adjusts his shaky grip on the knife. It’s closed, which is a bit of a problem. It’s also stiff, and for a few seconds he’s convinced he’ll drop it before getting it open. But he does manage, in the end-nearly slices his finger open, but still.

It’s difficult to get an angle on the ropes, and the process is both terrifying loud

**RRRRRR-RRRRRR-RRRRR**

and agonizingly slow. Every little sound has him flinching and freezing solid, but nobody comes down. Eventually, he hears the **slip-slip-shuuuuu **of the ropes falling away. His wrists confirm their freedom a minute later and he pulls his arms in front of him. They’re shaking, and they hurt, but they’re **free**.

He snaps back to reality and saws frantically at the ropes around his legs, nicking through the jumpsuit but who fucking cares he’s getting outta here or dying on the way, so help him god.

It takes a few minutes to actually stand up, and then he’s wobbly and shaky. Walking into the dark is daunting-is anyone down here?-but he grips the knife tight enough to make his hand hurt, puts his other hand out in front of him, and shuffles forward. 

His toes touch the bottom stair. Okay. He can do this. He can do this, if he gets up high enough he can also fling himself back down the damn stairs. Granted, he might end up paralyzed rather than dead, but if he severs the right nerve, the Joker won’t be able to inflict pain anymore. That might be better. There he’d be, unable to fight back, but unable to feel anything.

That’d be fucking hilarious.

Halfway up, now, and he thinks he can see a sliver of light in the distance. He can hear things now, shouting and running and gunfire and **oh shi**t what’s going on?

The sliver of light grows and he reaches out, grasps the doorknob. It’s cold under his fingers and it’s not locked, is it, please don’t be locked, not now--

The Joker’s nightmarish cackle sounds in the distance and he jerks back, presses up against the door and strains to see if he’s behind him, if he’s been following him up the stairs.

No. No, he’s on the other side of the door, he’s…on the intercom?

Jason swallows once, twice, three times and takes the doorknob again, twists it.

It turns and the door opens with a soft **click**.

This is a trick, or a hallucination, Jason’s sure. But he’s come too far to stop, and that spark of hope that he thought was dead is flickering again.

He goes through the door.

It’s chaos in the asylum proper; there’s corpses and bloodstains and screaming. The halls are foggy with dust and smoke and **he’s** on the intercom, laughing and laughing and shit he knows he has to know God please no more he can’t he **can’t--**

He doesn’t know. Or he just doesn’t say; he’s talking to someone who can only be Batman,

**Left me you son of a bitch I should look for you make you see what you let him do to me**

mocking him. **But no one’s coming.** Jason’s standing in the middle of the hallway and nobody’s coming.

He runs, sort of, stumbling awkwardly, until he trips out of a side entrance and onto the grounds. It’s raining outside, and there’s mutated plants that can only be Ivy’s **everywhere** (one just spat spores at some poor, screaming bastard), but.

But he’s outside for the first time in over a **year**.

Honestly, he has no idea what he wants in this moment. Every single sense is being assaulted; the smell of the plants and the wet chill of the rain and sounds of the trees…

A bath. He does know what he wants, and that is a warm-scalding hot-bath. And...and to avoid...he just…

He wants to be alone, but not...not stuck. He wants to be alone to do what he wants, whether that’s sleep or shower or slit his goddamn wrists open. And to do that, he has to get off the island.

His ankle hurts from his awkward run, but he gives it a mental **toughen up, you useless prick**, and starts trudging gingerly towards the main gates.

Honestly, he has no idea how he ends up in one of Gotham’s crappy no-tell-motels with a wad of cash (safehouse stash? pickpocket?), but here he is. The clerk gives no fucks and gives him a room on the ground floor.

Jason hasn’t laid eyes on himself since...since Joker got hold of him. So he supposes it’s understandable that he doesn’t recognize the boy in the mirror for a second.

He’s filthy, hair matted and tangled, and the orange jumpsuit he’s been stuffed into is bloody and torn. But that’s not the worst of it. That would be the burn on his cheek, a crisp, clear **J** that still hurts and is barely healing. When he brushes his fingers against the skin under it, he can feel it shudder as the nerves tingle warningly.

He tears his gaze away from the mirror, lips curling, and runs a bath. While the water’s filling up, he strips the jumpsuit off, hurls it aside and resolutely doesn’t touch the still-healing bullet wound in his chest, pretends it’s no big deal that his ankle doesn’t look quite right.

He eases himself into the tub. The water’s the best thing he’s felt in **forever** and he adjusts himself so he can dunk his head under.

**Oh God yes please--**

He stays under until his lungs burn because he can, because he’s in total control of this situation. If he wants to just bob up and down, he can. If he wants to blow bubbles, there’s no one to stop him. No Joker to force him back or haul him up by the hair, no Batman to point and intone, **stay back, stay out of my way.**

For the first time in...maybe his whole life, Jason Todd is his own man.

And like **HELL** is he going to let anybody take that from him.

THE END


	12. Need-to-Know Basis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DC has been, like, weirdly mean to Jason lately. So he can have a hug. But not from me, because I actually hate hugs. :/ Almost done transferring these from Tumblr! ALMOST THERE!
> 
> I shit you not, Scarecrow saw him for like two seconds and just went, ‘pointy ears, dramatic skylight entrance...must be a Bat-child’. Literally everyone in Gotham that isn’t Bruce knows who he is. He all but has his name in neon between his ears.

Oswald Cobblepot, better known as the Penguin, is late. Antoine’s not sure if he’s really late or if he’s petty-late, but he’s not here. None of them can say anything; the Arkham Knight isn’t here, either. Admittedly, that’s a little weird, but hey. He’ll turn up, he always does.

They’re outnumbered but **not** outclassed; Penguin’s goons couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. They have to be nice, anyway, but it’s obvious they’re not happy. They’re scowling and cracking their knuckles and generally radiating, ‘go away’.

“Mister Cobblepot will be here as soon as traffic allows,” Dove Marquis is saying, voice friendly like she’s oblivious to her...coworkers’...antics. “As I’m sure you all know, Batman can cause a lot of upset in a very short time frame.” Soo...is that a thing? Like, if you’re late for work, can you blame Batman? “In the meantime, you may as well get comfortable. We have an expansive menu that you’re welcome to order from. All we ask is that you don’t wander into the back.”

Well, **now** Antoine’s curious. Is there a bunch of stolen goods back there? Bodies? Priceless works of art?

They’ll be good, they’ll be good. But he does have to wonder.

Nobody really relaxes, but Penguin’s boys do quit their nonverbal grumbling for the most part. Hopefully the guy’ll be here soon. For that matter, hopefully the boss’ll be here soon. Where the hell is he, anyway?

Trent pushes himself off the wall and twists to crack his spine.

“This place is weird,” he says softly. “How much you wanna bet that half this stuff’s stolen from a museum or somethin’?”

“What kinda dumbass do you take me for?”

“A little one.”

He’ll only hurt himself if he elbows Trent in the stomach, but it’s tempting. He settles for giving him the finger and turning away, and that’s the reason he sees Marquis suddenly go white as a sheet and grip a chair like she’s about to fall. She’s looking at something behind them and Antoine’s admittedly paranoid first thought is **BATMAN.**

It’s not; it’s just the boss, and yeah, okay, he is definitely, uh, unsettling, but…

The room’s gone silent. The Knight appears to be looking at the floor, and Marquis is looking at him like she’s seen a ghost.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, finally pries her fingers off the chair back and takes a few tottering steps forward. “Richardson said…”

What? What the hell? Does everyone in Gotham just Know Shit? This is incredibly unfair.

The Knight’s half-curled in on himself and if Antoine didn’t know better, he’d say he was...shy or something. Marquis stops maybe a foot from him and whispers, “Was she right?”

He doesn’t answer and she raises her voice, sounding, honestly, like she’s about to start screaming or crying.

**“Was she right?”**

Right about what? Antoine is confused. What’s going on? Have they met? (Shit, did they have some sort of wild night in Paris? He doesn’t wanna know.)

The Knight tips his head forward, and Marquis makes a strangled noise before flinging her arms around him. WHAT THE HELL. 

Antoine cringes, expecting her to lose a hand at best. You don’t…people never…**there’s hugging**. Hugging is a no-no.

But not today, apparently; the Knight hugs her back, little stiff, little awkward, but it’s definitely a hug. Antoine thinks they fell into the Twilight Zone. Or maybe this isn’t the boss. Not like they can tell…okay, they can, it is, it’s just weird.

The hug doesn’t last a thousand years or anything. Maybe a couple of minutes before Marquis lets him go, straightens up, and generally goes back to looking like the sun could fall into the street and she wouldn’t notice. The boss goes back to looking at his boots, and Antoine’s literally **just** about to go over there and see if he can obtain Information when the Penguin strolls in. Damn it, Penguin, you couldn’t have waited two more minutes? Just two. That’s all he asks!

“Gentlemen!” Is that a **bottle** in his face? An honest-to-God bottle? “Sorry to have kept you waiting.” IT IS. Why? What is **wrong** with these people? “Shall we get down to business?”

THE END


	13. Forgive Me, Though I Don't Deserve It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. I feel better now. And we're caught up! HAHA!

The first time Dove sees Gotham’s newest version of the Red Hood, it’s eleven at night; early, by a lot of people’s standards. She steps out for a smoke and he’s **there**, wrangling some poor guy in a chokehold.

Everything happens fast. She opens the door. Red Hood’s head snaps up to see who it is. And then he adjusts his grip on the man, smashes his head into the bricks with a sickening **crunch**, and grapples up.*

Really.

Dove looks at the guy now on the ground. He’s not familiar. He **is** dead, though, which means she has to call Harvey Bullock and tell him **yeah, got an alley body for ya, nope, I don’t know what happened, I stepped out for a smoke and there he was, make it snappy, if we get rats Cobblepot’s gonna pitch a fit.**

This sucks. The least he could do, Dove thinks grumpily, is take his victims with him. Or at least pick a different alley to bash their heads in.

* * *

The second time Dove sees him, it’s less violent. It’s two weeks later. Two weeks of watching the body count climb higher, of hearing hushed whispers turn to desperate screams about this new player. Murder Batman, some of them are calling him. Some of them think he **is** Batman, finally snapped. Or Batman’s ghost. Dove has her own suspicions on the matter, but she hasn’t gotten a good look at him to confirm or deny them.

The Arkham Knight vanished like a ghost. And then this guy showed up. And, well, she has to wonder. Just a little.

She’s not sure if she wants to be right or not.

Thing is, Robin-well, Robin the Second-was...look. Kid would pick a fight with a laser-spewing gargoyle to save somebody, but he had a habit of getting Batman-rough with certain types of people. Rapists, traffickers. The same people that Hood leaves in pieces throughout the city.

Yeah, she has to wonder.

She’s enjoying her half-hour of no coworkers and no drunk people, cigarette between her lips and Instagram pulled up on her phone. It’s knitting November and she’s looking for ideas. You can only make so many hats.

Her only warning that she’s not alone is the scuff of boots on the scuzzy bricks. She’s expecting a coworker, at first, or maybe a homeless guy. It turns out to be neither.

Most people who have seen the Red Hood and lived go on and on about ‘faceless mask’ and ‘built like a tank’ and ‘GUNS’. And all right, they have a point. But nobody’s mentioned what appears to be a strip of duct tape-or maybe a band-aid, she can’t tell-desperately trying to hold his shirt together.

He’s holding a coffee cup. When he realizes he’s got her attention, he shuffles forward, sets it down on the recycling bin next to her, and mumbles, “Sorry about. Um.” He mimes slamming somebody’s head into the bricks. “Yeah. That.”

Well. She was right, after all. Wow.

She stubs out her cigarette and sets her phone down. Hood’s silent and still, even when she reaches up to tap a finger against his helmet.

“Take this off.” Her voice is shaking and she’d like it to stop. Hood doesn’t move. Or say anything. _“Please.”_

She thinks he’ll disappear, honestly. But he reaches up, pushes the hood back and grips the helmet. There’s a soft _click_ and the thing...expands, a little, at the jaw, enough for him to pull it off.

Robin had had a round face with squishy cheeks, freckles, and a broad grin. Red Hood’s not grinning; he’s looking at the ground, visibly trying not to let his shoulders crawl up to his ears. He’s less squishy than he used to be, too, more drawn. Tired. And if those freckles are still there, they’re swallowed under scars.

And there are a lot of those. The most visible one is that damn ‘J’, stark and burned into his skin like he’s a piece of meat rather than a boy, but there’s others. A gash on the bridge of his nose that looks like it went down to the bone. Scratches that look like they came from fingernails on his cheeks.

But he’s _alive_, he’s not lying on grimy tiles with a bullet in his chest. He’s also warm, as she finds out when she pulls him into a hug. That startles him, makes him flinch and drop the helmet. But he doesn’t try to escape, just flails his hands a little before settling them on her shoulders. And. It’s just.

She knows he’s grown up. Obviously. She’s not blind, in denial of the passage of time, or amnesiac; he’d been an adult before Halloween, after all. It’s just...well...he’d just been so **little**, before. Broad-shouldered, sure, but he hadn’t grown into them, he’d been a scrappy thing, like one of those creepy life-sized dolls, and a hair or two shorter than her. Not anymore. Now he’s filled out and she has to reach a bit to cup the back of his head.

There’s scarring there, too, knots from heavy objects and what feels like a burn scar at the base of his skull where Robin’s cape had come to. Jesus Christ…

She doesn’t **mean** to start crying. She really doesn’t. But it’s been a long day and it’s just…

He’d just been so damn little.

The crying scares him; he stiffens up and his hands flutter against her shoulders like he’s not sure what to do with them.

_What did that bastard do to you, Robin?_

“Um.” The fluttering stops. “I. M’sorry? For whatever I did?”

She should tell him to be quiet, that this isn’t his fault. She should pull herself together. She should do a lot of things. She does none of them; it’s easier to grip his jacket (are those safety pins?) and just. Just try to calm down.

(She’s going to have to redo her makeup after this--no. No. She is sick, it came on suddenly, she is going home.)

He must finally get it, because he tightens his grip and mumbles, “M’okay. M’okay.”

For the moment, that’s true. And it’s enough.

THE END

*Based on actual game events; Batman’s Silent Takedowns are SO FUCKING SLOW when your detective mode is jammed. More than once I’ve been mid-strangle, had someone stroll around the corner, and had to smash my cuddle-buddy’s head against the wall and flee into the night.


	14. Krampus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: 'Santa Eats Little Kids' from Dan Hart.

“Bullshit, _ese_,” Miguel drawls, fingers deftly peeling an orange in one long ribbon. “Batman ain’t-whatcha call ‘im? ‘Krampus’? C’mon, it’s a guy in a cape.”

“You hope,” Jason corrects. “You hope that’s what he is. You ever seen him up close?”

“No.”

“You know anyone who has?”

“You.”

“Besides me.”

“...no,” Miguel says, cockiness bleeding away just a little. Jason nods and promptly reaches up to keep his damn Santa hat in place. “But that doesn’t mean anything! He never comes down here.”

“You’ve never **seen** him down here.” This is Bruce’s very own fault. He doesn’t come down here-well, not often, anyway-and the kids are already scared shitless of him. Just last month he had to ‘rescue’ one of ‘em. Kid was screaming bloody murder about being turned into Robin and eating rats. He doesn’t know where that came from, but oh, God...Bruce’s **face**...a gift, an absolute gift. “There’s a reason.”

“Yeah, he’s a coward.”

He’s got time. This is happening.

“Siddown, brats,” he says, plopping down on a step. The kids-four of ‘em-settle down nearby, expressions ranging from ‘you’re so full of shit your eyes are brown’ to ‘you could tell me the moon is made of ricotta cheese and I’d believe you’. “Batman is Krampus.”

“No such thing.” Oh, Miguel. “Krampus ain’t real. He’s like Santa, he’s real to rich brats.”

“It’s Gotham, kid. We got Killer Croc, Clayface, Poison Ivy…why wouldn’t we have Krampus, huh?”

“Maybe Hood’s right,” Silvia whispers. Miguel scoffs.

“Whatever.”

“You can decide for yourselves,” Jason says breezily. “But before you do...you’ve heard about that incident back in the late nineties, right?”

“No?”

**Yesssssss.**

He nods and clucks his tongue.

“Mm-hm. It was on a night a lot like this one; dark early. Cold. Probably gonna snow.” It was in the middle of summer, but eh. Storytelling. “And there was a little boy-a lot like you-who was a very naughty little boy. And what did he find, in this very alley?”

He doesn’t get any interruptions now, but he pauses anyway. Dramatic Pauses are great for tension!

“He found the Batmobile, just sitting here. No one in sight. Now, if it were you or me, we’d just walk away, wouldn’t we?” Nods. “Because we’re Good. But this little boy-if I’m remembering right, his name was Jason-was not Good. And he decided he was going to steal those tires for himself.”

Absolute silence. Miguel seems to have forgotten his orange, the ribbon-peel dangling from between his fingers. Jason swallows down a mood-ruining laugh and continues, voice lowering with every word.

“So he got one. And then another. And then one more. But when he went back for the last one, Batman was waiting for him. And he **grabbed** little Jason, and demanded his tires back. And do you know what Jason did?”

No answer, at first, but then Silvia whispers, “Gave them back?”

In hindsight, that may have been the better choice. Oh, well.

“No. He hit Batman with the tire iron to try and get away.”

“Did he?”

“He **ran**. And he ran, and he ran, all the way back home. But the Bat got there first.”

He stops. They’re quiet for a few minutes (and wow, nonblinking kids really are just sort of creepy) before Alexi rasps, “What happened to Jason?”

“No one ever saw him again.”

They’re quiet for a few more minutes. Jason stands up, ankle cracking (it really is gonna snow, owowow) and prepares for one last sweep before going home to bed.

“Did that really happen?”

“Mm-hm. Ask anyone, they’ll tell ya.”

“You swear?”

Thank God for this helmet. He’s sure his face looks a lot more Grinch-like than Santa-like.

“Would I lie to you?” He pats Miguel on the head and mentally ups that Grinch comparison. Oh, well. “Go hole up. You guys got somewhere safe?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Stick together, don’t talk to strangers, yadda-yadda.”

“Hey, Hood?”

“Yeah?”

“You won’t let Kra-Batman get us, will you?”

This is it. This is his legacy.

“Nah. But remember...**be good**.”

They scatter. And if Jason tosses a little salute to what...might not be a real gargoyle, well, that’s his business.

THE END


	15. Questionable Life Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Tumblr anon, for the inspirational spark! Takes place in the R(&B’s P) timeline.

Antoine is sitting on the couch, minding his own business, when Trent, Jimmy and Riley descend upon him like the heralds of Doomsday.

“Hey, buddy.”

“What is  **up?** ”

_ You doing good? Healthy? Happy? _

Oh, no.

“What do you want.”

“Your coffee.”

“Hell no,” he says immediately, cupping his mug closer to him just in case. Then, “Why.”

Looks are exchanged. Antoine regrets his immediate life choices.

“Okay,” Jimmy says, “so remember when Frank banned us from testing Riley’s taste buds?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Mark backed him up?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the boss agreed?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We-ell.” Oh, God, no. “Frank and Mark are shopping, and the boss is still sleeping off that weird shit from last night.” He doesn’t like where this is going. “So we’re gonna try again. They’ll never know!  **But** it needs a little somethin’-somethin’, you know? Like, say, the cup of coffee that you have.”

Riley’s raccoon hand twitches near his face and he moves so he’s facing all them, grip tightening on the mug.

“No.”

“Oh, come on--”

“Make your own!”

“But that’s all doctored up right!”

“There’s nothing in it!”

“The temperature’s perfect!”

“I will fight you for this coffee,” he warns. “Make your own, you  _ heathens _ .”

“Ugh.” They throw their hands up. Is that it? Is he safe? “Don’t rat us out.”

“Oh, I don’t have to. They’ll know.”

“They’re never gonna know.”

Exactly eleven minutes later, the pot on the stove flares, spitting a steam of fire towards the ceiling and taking out Jimmy’s eyebrows. There’s panicked, high-pitched shrieking even after Trent brings the lid down and turns off the burner, and it only stops once Riley’s manhandled him under the sink and turned the water on.

“What the hell is going on.”

He told them so.

He raises his mug at the boss, who...okay, yeah, he looks awful. He’s wrapped in a ginormous blanket and looking very much like a little kid up for a glass of water.

“Okay,” Trent starts, since Jimmy’s drowning and Riley’s hands are a little busy, “we didn’t do it on purpose--”

Jason holds up a hand, scrubs at his eyes, and gestures at Antoine.

“You can’t lie. What happened.”

Ouch. That hurts. It’s true, but it hurts.

“They were going to feed Riley, but the, um. Whatever’s in the pot. That. It caught fire.”

He sighs. Wraps the blanket tighter around himself. Opens his mouth and is promptly cut off by Mark’s, “What the fuck did you do?”

Jimmy waves from under the water. Mark sees the pot and the shit hits the fan.

“You  **idiots--** ”

“What’s happening--was there a fire?” Frank elbows everyone out of the way so he can get to the fridge. “Why do I smell burnt hair?”

“--once, told you a hundred times! You can’t. Poison. People! The actual  **fuck** \--”

“Really?” Aww, they’re in for it now. That’s the Disappointed Father tone. “Really? You are grown-ass men, we talked about this--”

“--burned the building down, Jesus--”

Antoine takes a sip of his coffee and leans over to see what’s in the fridge. Burgers. Nice.

“--can’t be responsible--”

“--burn cream for your dumb ass--”

He told them. He told them this would happen.

“--expect more from you--”

Oh, damn. The Expectations. This is getting good. Jimmy’s trying to hide under a kitchen towel, but the other two are looking guiltily at the ground. Antoine feels a little sorry for them, but, well...yeah, he really doesn’t feel that sorry for them.

Maybe next time, they’ll think things through. Or at least watch the stuff on the stove a little closer.

THE END


	16. The Worry Gamut

Jason has fucked up.

To be fair, to be completely, utterly fair, he really didn’t think this was going to happen. There was a girl, a little girl, like, nine or something (they’re all so tiny, shut up), struggling with some skinny guy that honestly looked like a stiff breeze could take him out. So he’d intervened, because he’s not a monster, y’know, and the guy had pulled the smallest, crappiest pocket knife Jason has ever seen in his life. Seriously. The one he had as a kid was better than that.

He resists the urge to make a joke about Knife Sizes.

What he says instead is, in hindsight, not much better.

“Whatcha gonna do, stab me?”

The guy snarls. Jason laughs...and promptly yelps and swears a blue streak because  **the fucker stabbed him in the arm.**

He punches the guy, and it’s about now that he realizes that the little girl is filming this whole disaster on her phone.

Well. Shit.

* * *

The video goes viral, because of course it does. And it is good quality; there’s no mistaking the Red Hood making his stupid quip, laughing, and getting stabbed. There’s no way it can be cosplay.

He sulks on a rooftop for a little while, scowling at the comments (they’re ranging from ‘same’ to ‘I need a new fav’) and half-hoping Dick will randomly smack into another billboard and take the heat off of him. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. There’s not even a convenient Riddler crime to draw attention, and he settles, miserably, for making his way home.

He has to be more careful than usual, because, well, he doesn’t want to hear it. He knows that was not a smart move. He is aware that yes, sassing the unstable knife man was a poor life choice.

Not that it stops Cherry and Mia, who spot him when a car’s headlights reveal him jumping a small gap between buildings, from yelling at him.

“OI!” Crap. “RED!”

Oh, hell no. He’s, uh, he’s deaf, now. Yup. Deaf as can be, can’t hear a thing.

“RED, YOU GET DOWN HERE AND EXPLAIN THIS!” Cherry waves a phone at him. He isn’t crying. He has a helmet on, you can’t prove anything. “DON’T YOU RUN FROM ME, BOY, YOU--RED HOOD!”

Good-bye.

He only feels a little bit bad for leaping into a neighboring alley and shoving a dumpster forward enough to cram himself behind it. Admittedly, he doesn’t fit, like, at all, but it’s Gotham. Nobody’s going to look.

Okay. Okay. He’s okay. Now he’s just gotta be careful, because some of the traffic cameras down here work just fine, and there’s no way that Barbara doesn’t know what just happened. And Babs is petty. It doesn’t matter that he’s fine. She’ll call Bruce, and Bruce will come find him and call Alfred before he can get away.

And Alfred will destroy him.

This is terrible.

* * *

He’s doing pretty good, all things considered. It’s slow going, because of the camera-ducking, but he’s avoided the working girls.

But he did not expect Harvey Bullock.

Harvey’s getting falafel, which is fine. What’s less fine is his spotting Jason as he tries to sidle on by.

“Red Hood!” Aw, crapsticks. “Freeze, buster!”

Nope.

He makes a run for it. Harvey curses and shouts after him, “You’d be safer in solitary, you little shit!”

Eh, probably.

He waves-ow, stabbed arm, bad idea-and makes a jump for a fire escape ladder.* It groans like it doesn’t want to hold his weight, but it does, and he scampers up to the roof relatively unscathed.

Aaaand he’s bleeding again. Whoop.

* * *

The kids are easy to avoid. He feels a little bad, but they’ll give him grief and he’s starting to feel a little woozy. He’s just gonna get into his apartment, get cleaned up, and go to bed and hope this all blows over soon.

But he forgot someone.

“Jason.” Can he leap out the window? “What. Were you.  **Thinkin’.** ”

“I invoke the right to remain silent.”

Mz. May makes a noise that sounds very much like a Bat-grunt. This isn’t fair. She’s antique, how does she know what the internet is?

“Come here, let’s see how bad it is.”

He would have to move in across the hall from an ex-cat burglar...at least it’s not Selina. She’d rat him out to Bruce.

But  **man** , this sucks.

THE END

*_Arkham Knight _Jason makes up for his lack of cape by being able to leap across stages in a single bound. I’m not kidding.


	17. I'm Done (With Losing You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve been rewatching the animated series while I do housework (here come the holidays, may the lord have MERCY), and I’ve been reminded how bitter I am that DC sucks. Have some Batdad for all your ‘fuck DC’ needs. Title from The Boxer Rebellion’s ‘Losing You’. Takes place after ‘Roots and Leaves’.

Contrary to popular opinion, Bruce doesn’t know everything. He makes it his business to know as much as possible, but he doesn’t actually know everything.

Such as, for example,  **what happened** to Jason last week. He knows the end of it-Jay had dug his way out a cheap coffin-but he honestly has no clue as to how he got there. It. Is.  **Infuriating.** Alfred knows, but Alfred invoked ‘discussion had in confidence’ and refuses to share. And Marquis knows something, but she told him to fuck off and flicked a cigarette at him when he got too close.

Humph.

He hasn’t...seen Jason very much, since he left. It’s not for lack of want to, either, not at all. But he’d asked for space, and Bruce knows better than to push him. Besides, it’s not like he’s been left to sulk or anything. Alfred’s been dropping by. And it’s just...it’s better if they...don’t...talk. Or share breathing room. Or anything like that.

But tonight, Alfred had thrust a thermos of chicken soup at him, claimed he’d forgotten to bring it by earlier (a lie, Bruce knows that, but that’s not an argument he can win), and politely informed him that he was to drop it off.

He makes sure that the lid is  **firmly** on, in case Jason decides to throw it at him.

The cowl says that Jason is asleep, which is ideal. It means Bruce can pick the lock (does he not have better security--oh. Yes, he does, it’s off, for Alfred or-?) and let himself in without a sound.

The soup goes in the fridge and Bruce could leave. Probably should leave. But…

But.

Bruce has never been good at leaving well enough alone. Maybe it’s a character flaw. Does it matter?

He steps into the bedroom. The bedside lamp’s still on, soft light giving everything a yellow hue. An empty cup sits on the nightstand, still smelling faintly of lavender tea. Jason doesn’t like lavender tea. Bruce, for the life of him, has no clue why he drinks it.*

A raggedy teddy bear is on the floor. Picking it up reveals that it’s Jay’s old Robin bear, cape faded and a little torn at the hem. Bruce remembers Dick giving this to him, remembers the scoffing and, later, the clinging; Scarecrow’s fear toxin isn’t pleasant. The bear had been given a place of honor on Jason’s bed after that, and then a spot on his nightstand, and there it had stayed after...after. Well.

Bruce sets the bear on the nightstand, next to the empty mug and the phone. He doesn’t touch the lamp.

Jason’s still de--asleep, he’s just asleep. He’s propped up on an extra pillow to help him breathe and his arm hangs limply off the mattress.  _ The Shadow of the Wind _ lies flat on his chest. Bruce picks it up, sticks a bookmark in it-heaven help him if he creases the pages-and sets it aside. There.

He should go. He should go right now. It’s just…

Jason looks so much more relaxed when he’s asleep. There’s no snide remarks, no black humor, no  **exhaustion** . He looks his age, for once. And the thing is, he’s a light sleeper, but Bruce has a talent for not waking him. Always has. Maybe it’s because he’s Batman, maybe it’s because he had practice with Dick. It doesn’t matter.

“Mm…”

That might be bad.

No, no, it’s not. Jason’s just moving a little, working his way under the blankets. Bruce sighs, straightens them out and tucks the hanging arm under them, trying to be careful of the bandages on the hand.

“Hrm…?”

“Shh, Jay-lad,” he soothes. “Go back to sleep.”

Jason blinks up at him, bleary-eyed and not fully awake, and Bruce risks brushing his bangs off his forehead. Nothing terrible happens.

“Dad…?”

You know, he’d almost forgotten about that bruise on his chest. Clock King hits harder than you’d think.

“Shh,” he says again. “Just checking on you.”

“Oh.” His eyes close. “Don’ stay up too late…”

He doesn’t chuckle. Jason has never liked it when his attempts at mother-henning are chuckled at. But it’s a near thing.

“Sweet dreams, Jay.” He kisses his hair and straightens up. “Feel better.”

“Mm-hm.”

He could, he suspects, get away with  lurking sitting in the other room. But he doesn’t want to push. This is fine. It’s better for both of them that he let himself out, lock the door, and glide off into the night.

Even though he doesn’t want to.

THE END

  
  


*Catherine Todd was partial.


	18. Up on the Van Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS. FOR MONTHS. MONTHS. I hope you appreciate the self-control that required.

Bruce isn’t sure what he’s expecting when Gordon calls him with a curt, “You need to come to the Iceberg Lounge.”

It isn’t this, he’s sure. Nobody could expect this.

The Lounge is fine. It’s been decorated for the season, glistening baubles all but cackling about being bought with money obtained through illegal activities. It’s suspiciously empty, though that could be explained by the presence of GCPD.

Or not.

Oswald Cobblepot is tied from ankles to head in what appears to be ribbon. A big, sparkly red bow sits atop his hat. A…ball of reindeer socks…has been crammed in his mouth. He looks **furious**. It doesn’t help that there’s an envelope with ‘Batman’ scrawled on it taped to his chest.

There are two possible reasons for this, and Bruce is doubting it’s some new, holiday-themed vigilante introducing themselves, which leaves…

He reaches forward and plucks the socks free. Cobblepot makes a face reminiscent of an enraged terrier Bruce once saw on the internet.* He breathes deeply for a few seconds, nose wrinkling, and finally snarls, “Control your brats!”

No, it is not a new holiday-themed vigilante. Part of him dies a little inside.

**Where did I go so wrong?**

Bullock swallows a snicker. Gordon has a little more tact.

“Come on, Oswald. Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where? I have done nothing to warrant being attacked by that--that festive **fiend--**”

Gordon holds up a flash drive wrapped in polka-dotted washi tape.

“I got a present, too. Let’s go.”

Bruce tugs the envelope free before stepping aside. Gordon cuts the ribbon and guides Cobblepot towards the door. Bruce will follow in a few minutes-he has to know, now, what happened here-but first, card. Alfred’s stringent rule of ‘card, then present’ is deeply ingrained. He’ll know if Bruce ignores it--what’s that?

It’s a small box, wrapped nicely, with ‘Agent A’ scrawled on it. Ah. He’ll deliver that, then.

The card is blue, with a little silhouette of Santa’s sleigh going across it. The inside, on the other hand, is filled with that spiky writing he remembers so well.

**I gotcha an angry bird, B! :D <3, J.T.**

Bruce has never been good at leaving things alone. Even things that he’s probably going to regret. So, of course, he follows Gordon to the police station, arranges for a private interview with Cobblepot, and swallows the Parent Voice that he used to use for parent-teacher conferences when he says, “What happened.”

* * *

**Earlier that evening…**

Honestly, this is probably the biggest spur-of-the-moment thing Jason has ever done. Or at least one of them. But…well…he was hungry. That’s how this started.

He’d been standing in the Circle K, looking for food. All they’d friggin’ had was Hot Cheetos, and honestly, after the Hot Cheeto Disaster of ’08, he’d seriously consider starving rather than touch one ever again.

(Oh, God. After everything, that incident still held the power to make him shudder.)

And then it was there, on an endcap, surrounded by candy canes and snowman-topped PEZ machines, that he saw it. Somewhere, Alfred wept. Dick felt a warm sense of…maybe pride. Bruce was probably suddenly stricken with the need to sulk on a gargoyle.

…well, a bigger need than usual. A primal urge, if you would.

And that’s why Jason now has a Santa hat and beard on over his helmet. It took a bit of superglue to get them to stick, but he did it, in the end. So here he is, crouched on a crane by the docks, empty bag in hand.

Penguin is late. The guys he’s meeting are here, but the man himself, petty bastard that he is, is nowhere to be seen--wait.

He hears a van. It’s a clunky, crappy sound. He knows that sound.

**Ho, ho, ho, motherfuckers.**

He straightens up, stalks to the edge of the shipping crate he’s settled on, and waits for the van to sputter to an almost-stop before stepping off the edge--

\--and landing on the hood with a nasty-sounding **CRUNCH! **The driver blinks at him in confusion before things come together for him and he hollers, “WE GOT A PROBLEM, BOYS!”

Jason waggles his fingers at him, hops to the ground, and saunters towards the back, smacking his palm against the side of the van on the way. There’s shouting inside. He doesn’t hear Penguin, but to be fair, he didn’t expect him to show up in this piece of crap. Oz has self-respect.

Or. More self-respect than the suckers he hires.

He stops a foot or so away from the doors and waits. Now that the pounding’s stopped, it’s quiet in the van. Well. Almost quiet-there appears to be a hushed argument over who has to open the door.

Well? Come on! Are you men or mice?

Silence from the van, broken only by a whispered, “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot--I hate you. I hate you all.”

“Get out, bitch.”

“Screw you,” the first man snarls, and then he straight-up **kicks** the door open like this is some 90s white-man-learns-karate movie. “Come on, Red Hood!”

“Someone’s on the naughty list.”

Apparently figuring go big or go home, Naughty List shoots at him. He misses, because no Gotham Goon can shoot straight, but he tries. Which means, of course, that anything Jason does to him now is in self-defense and absolutely legal in every way.

Honest.

Even though the bullet would have missed him by a mile, Jason decides to boost Naughty List’s morale by hurling himself to the side...and hopping on top of the van. It’s like popping a pimple; there’s yelling, and then a stream of men spill out. Now that they’re all out, he grapples away to get a better look.

And also to scare them shitless, because what’s the fun in being nice?

“Is he gone?”

“Maybe he’s gone.”

“Holy shit, you scared him off.” Pfft, nah. “Dude, I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”

“Eh, no offense taken.”

Well, isn’t that nice. He resists the urge to give ‘em his Tiny Tim impression (probably not so good, now) and swings to the roof of the little office overlooking the dock.

“Check the area to make sure,” somebody says. “F’we bring his head to Penguin, we might get bonuses.”

Yeah, they might. Penguin’s got it in for him, a little, even if he did...sort of...apologize for asking about the bottle in his eye.

Sorry, Oz.

Well, if they’re gonna be all gung-ho about it…

He throws a smoke pellet into their midst and when they start screaming (and one of them is crying, **Christ**), leaps down after it.

“Doncha know the song, boys? Sing it with me, now...you better not pout, you better not cry, you better not shout, I’m tellin’ you why…” **SCHWING!** A head rolls and he has to dive to grab it and shove it in his bag. “Santa Hood is comin’...to toooown!”

By the time the smoke clears, there are three headless corpses, two crying mooks, and one horribly bloody machete. Jason tosses the machete to the ground and looks at the survivors. They’re unarmed. One of them is literally unarmed, meaning that his arm is lying on the ground, and the other one is bleeding from the side. Huh. He doesn’t remember doing that.

“I’m feelin’ the holiday spirit tonight, boys,” he says. “So tell ya what. You tell me where your boss is, and you can run right along to the emergency room.”

To the shock of none, the, uh, unarmed one rolls over immediately.

“He had a meetin’! With Dent, they’re at the Dos Amigos club downtown!”

“‘preciate that,” Jason says sincerely, hefts the bag over his shoulder. “You might wanna get that checked out. Looks like it hurts.”

Now. He has a present to give to Penguin.

THE END

*Tim sent Bruce a video of Mr. Bubz. Ask and ye shall receive the same.


	19. Solo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shit you not, this guy is real. He’s bitching about nobody believing that he can do it. Pfft. Okay, buddy. Wanna test that?

The Knight looks at Mike Roberts and radiates what Antoine can only describe as, ‘are you shitting me’.

“Really.”

“Yessir.”

Silence from all parties. Antoine resists the urge to facepalm.

“Let me make sure we’re both on the same page,” the boss says carefully. “You want to man a checkpoint by yourself.”

“Yessir.”

“You want to defend this theoretical checkpoint against the Batman completely alone.”

“Yessir.”

“With nobody in the immediate area to help you.”

“Yessir.”

Wow. Wow. Antoine has…there are no words. Sad thing is, this is one of their best guys. He’s good, good enough to be on the damn strike team. But…this is what he wants? To settle in with a crap-ton of sentry guns and, to be realistic, probably get knocked out and hung off the nearest gargoyle?

Where is the boss  **finding** these people? This one’s not his fault. He wants that on record, that he didn’t find this one. The Knight found this one all by himself.

“One minute.”

“Yessir.”

Antoine’s yanked into the other room and the boss hisses, “Where did you find this one?”

“I didn’t, boss. That one’s yours.”

Silence. The boss’s ears practically droop.

“You’re sure?”

“Yessir.” Even if he wasn’t, he’s not taking the blame for this. But he is sure, so it’s fine. “You sought him out specifically, sir.”

There’s a few minutes where they both just stand there awkwardly. Antoine’s…pretty sure…that the Knight is using his helmet to access Roberts’ files. Hopefully that’s what he’s doing, instead of standing there staring at him.

He turns around without another word and Antoine follows him back out.

“All right, Roberts,” he says, still clearly skeptical. “If you really think you can do it, we’ll see what we can arrange.”

That…that sounds ominous.

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

The Knight’s fingers tighten around what Antoine will bet is an imaginary neck, but his voice is…normal…when he answers.

“See that you don’t.” 

THE END


	20. Visitor

Ricky Nicholes doesn’t know what it is that wakes him up at two o’ clock in the morning. But something does. Something doesn’t feel right.

His bedroom window’s closed and the house is dark, which means he can pull the gun out of his nightstand drawer and creep towards his daughter’s room. Maybe she’s awake, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she needs a diaper change?

“Ga-ga-boo--”

Well, she’s awake. Not crying, though. Huh.

From the hallway, Ricky can see her window. Her  _ open _ window; the tree outside usually bangs against the glass, but tonight that rogue branch is poking into the room, red leaves rustling in the breeze.

Okay. Okay. The window’s open. Maybe the latch failed and that’s what woke him--

\--that’s not why the window’s open.

Now that his eyes are adjusting to the light, he can see the shadow seated in the rocking chair. It’s big, with heavy boots planted on the floor to rock said chair. Ricky squints, makes out more of the shape, makes out the guns strapped to its thighs and the ragged red edges of a hoodie peeking out from under a leather jacket.

Makes out the faceless red helmet that’s been haunting the underworld for months.

A second later, he realizes why Missy’s babbling; the Red Hood’s holding her in the crook of an elbow and is waggling the fingers of his other hand at her.

“Oh, God--”

“There you are.” Hood sounds distracted, but the high, friendly voice he uses for Missy is anything but. “S’that your daddy, sweetheart?”

“Da!”

“I thought so. You’ve got the same little curl riiight...here.”

One of the waggling fingers pokes Missy’s forehead and she giggles, swats at him like he  **doesn’t** break necks with those hands.

“Don’t hurt her,” Ricky begs, voice thick and heart beating harder than it ever has in his life. “Please--”

Hood raises his head, cold fury suddenly roiling off him.

**“I don’t. Hurt. Kids.”**

“Okay.” He puts his hands up. “Okay. Just. What do you want?”

Missy squeals and just like that, Hood’s back to friendly.

“We-ell,” he says, waggling his fingers at the baby again, “word on the street is that you can take a message to your boss for me.”

Black Mask? This can’t be good.

“Her mom’s dead,” he says frantically. “There’s no one else--”

“Huh-oh. Not your  **head** , you dumba-pple tree--no, no, kid, these don’t go in your mouth,  **trust me** .” He pulls his fingers back. Missy tries to snatch them and he boops her nose. “Nah, me knowing where you live, and how to keep your baby quiet...I think that’s enough of a message, huh?” The helmet tilts to the side and something dark enters his voice. “After all, you leave her with the sitter down the street for an hour on Thursdays so you can have some time to yourself. I can do a lot of very painful things in an hour.”

“What do you want me to say.”

“Just tell him hi.” Hood stands up and Ricky flinches back. He’s bigger up close, a lot bigger. “He’ll know what I meant. Maybe he’ll quit blocking my calls…”

Missy’s so damn small in his arms, chubby limbs flailing, and Ricky knows that even if he shoots him, and he drops her, he can’t catch her in time.

“Please,” he says desperately, “please--my little girl--”

“Turn around. Put the gun on the floor. And don’t even  **think** about moving for...let’s say five minutes, huh?”

Like he’s got a choice.

“Sure. Sure, man, just...sure.”

“Great.” Hood makes a twirling motion with his fingers. “Chop-chop!”

He does what he’s told. Missy babbles and coos and when the hall clock says five minutes have passed, he whirls around and lunges for her crib. She’s fine. She’s just fine. Not even a scratch. She blinks up at him, clearly baffled, and he adjusts her against his shoulder.

“S’okay, sweetie, Daddy’s here…”

“Dada!”

There’s no sign of Hood anywhere. Even the window’s closed. All the same, he takes Missy straight into the living room and sets up camp on the couch for the rest of the night.

Jesus Christ.

THE END


	21. From the Depths of the Basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Antoine spend, like, two hours going, ‘okay, he’s a little weird, but he’s the best of the best, I *swear*’. Yeah. Did Jimmy torpedo that hard work in two seconds?
> 
> …
> 
> Yeah. But we love him anyway.

Jimmy will admit that he can be...reactive. A little. BUT you know what, he is a mosquito magnet, flailing wildly helps him not get bit. And he’s got a sixth sense about these things, about telling when there’s something to smack and whereabouts it is.

But it doesn’t tell him  **what** he’s about to smack. In the past, this has led to him making contact with people, bugs, and, on one memorable occasion, a bear.

Today, it’s not a mosquito. It’s a...he’s not actually sure. It’s hard. It’s sort of pointy. And it’s not supposed to be here. Confused, exploratory patting says it’s attached to something warm and kevlar-y. Blinking furiously and squinting at the monitor turns up a shadow behind him. More blinking and a quick glasses-cleanse sharpens the shadow into...Batman?

Did he just slap Batman?

Oh, crap, he just slapped Batman.

The lights come on and he cringes at the sudden BURN.

“Man, how long has that bulb been out?”

That’s not Batman. Well, unless his dorky buddy Antoine has suddenly become cool and ninja-y. Which. Man. Buddy. Old pal. Jimmy stands a better chance of gaining 20/20 vision than Antoine does of becoming Batman.

Sorry.

Okay, okay. He didn’t actually slap Batman, either, but he almost wishes he had; whoever- or  **whatever** -is lurking behind him has glowing eyes and an awful lot of weapons on their person. And they do kind of look like Batman. You know. Objectively.

He should say something.

“What the fuck are you?”

Anything but that.

Too late now…

Glowy-eyed Batman just gazes at him, then the head tips down. Right about now, Jimmy remembers his hand is on its...their...chest and he snatches it back faster than that time he touched a hot burner to see what would happen.

“Sorry.”

“Jeeze, do you ever--you smacked him, didn’t you.”

So this  **is** Antoine’s fault. Why? That hacked Twitter was a joke, come on…

“Why are you in my house?”

“You don’t answer your phone!”

“I’m entitled to smack intruders!”

“Dude, you smacked a bear, didn’t that teach you anything?”

“I didn’t die.”

Antoine’s expression is the same as Jimmy remembers it: So Fucking Done. Whatever. Like he doesn’t--hold the phone, there is still the matter of glowy-eyed Batman.

He swivels the chair around and looks up.

“Hi.”

Glowy-eyed Batman takes a step back, holds out a hand and says,  **“The Arkham Knight.”**

It’s luck that keeps him from blurting out, ‘your mother was a sadist’.

“Jimmy Rogers, yeah, I know, I’m the junior and it stuck.”

Antoine facepalms. Antoine can just keep his little mouth shut.

Glowy-er, the Arkham Knight-just nods. That’s nice.

**“I have a job offer for you.”**

“First things, how’d you find me.”

He thinks he knows. Like, five people at any given time know where he is. Antoine is not one of them, but he knows two. Little snitches.

Sure enough, the Knight jerks his (Jimmy thinks it’s a him, anyway) head in Antoine’s direction.

**“He says you’re one of the best hackers in the business.”**

False modesty never got anybody anywhere.

“I am.”

**“He also says you’re a damned good programmer.”**

“I am.”

The Knight doesn’t keep talking, just turns towards the gently humming computer. It’s not doing anything particularly important, but Jimmy swallows a surge of concern for its well-being. Surely it’ll be fine, right? Antoine led this guy here, he can’t be a  **complete** monster. Unless there was coercion...nah, probably not.

Now that the lights are working (wow...when did he change that bulb last?), he can get a good look at the guy. He’s big. Armed. The helmet looks kinda like Batman, but the ears are shorter. Jimmy kind of wants to get his hands on that helmet, see what it does. He’s sure it does something cool. It  **has** to.

As, uh, distinctive as he is, he blends into the shadows just fine, camouflaged by flickering screens and blinking lights. It’s creepy, and Jimmy has to wonder how long he was behind him.

Where the hell did Antoine find this guy? Or, more accurately, what does this guy want with Antoine? He doesn’t look familiar. ‘Arkham Knight’ isn’t a name that’s come up, like, ever, and Jimmy knows he’d remember it.

“What’s your deal, man?” he says, when nobody offers up information. “Are you, like, marching on Metropolis or something?”

The Knight chuckles. It’s demonic and Jimmy wishes he had better lighting down here.

**“Close.”** He tips his head up to look at the weak bulb hanging from the ceiling.  **“Gotham.”**

Gotham. Gotham City, home of the crazies? Oh, hell no. HELL NO.

“I’m out, man. Nothing, uh, personal, best of luck, but that’s too much for me.”

The Knight shrugs.

**“Suit yourself,”** he says.  **“If you’re too scared to take on the Batman...you’re not the first.”**

The Batman. It’s not just Gotham, it’s the goddamn Batman? This guy is insane. Look, Jimmy admits that the Area 51 thing was pushing it, but  **BATMAN?**

(And now, especially...he’s seen the hospital records. He got curious. Batman went from ‘broken arm’ to ‘in traction’ for some reason. No, thanks.)

“You’re shitting me,” he says. He doesn’t mean to say it quite like that, but...hey. Shoe fits. “You want to take on the Batman.”

**“I’m ** **going** ** to take on the Batman,” ** the Knight corrects.  **“It’s up to you as to whether or not you want to be involved.”**

He’s nuts. He’s certifiable. But.

But. Antoine must believe him, or he wouldn’t have pulled strings to get them in here, and after that mess in Cairo, he was supposed to be on break. So maybe it’s worth it. Jimmy has nothing against Batman, exactly, but...he wouldn’t mind adding that to his, uh, list of accomplishments. It’s like how some of these big-game hunters want, like, a tiger or something. It’d be big. It’d be a challenge-oh, boy, would it be a challenge-and...it could be fun.

He leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers like he’s not about to make a bad life choice, and tilts his head to make the light hit his glasses just right. Hey. It’s effective. The aesthetic is important.

(Antoine is laughing behind his hand. Antoine never got the importance of the aesthetic.)

“I’m listening.”

THE END


	22. I Am Faded Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Breaking Benjamin’s ‘Torn in Two’ which is basically Antoine’s theme song. He’s a pretty well-adjusted sort, but right now he’s tired and he’s stressed. Post Laughing Batman incident, Happy Timeline version.

Sam was a good patient. He stayed in bed-or sometimes the couch, so he could watch TV-and took his medicine when he was supposed to and was generally a cooperative boy.

The boss is...Mark’s dubbed him a Patient From Hell, but Frank’s a generous sort by nature and...it’s just...he could word it a little better, but...well...

Mark isn’t wrong.

Jason has attempted to get up about five times, succeeded twice, argued about the painkillers and lost, and is generally only alive because he’s a spiteful, stubborn bastard. Frank expects nothing less; anyone who builds an army to kill Batman  **has** to be stubborn. Surviving an explosion of that magnitude? Yeah.

They’ve given him a babysitter, though, because he keeps trying to get up and track down Batman. Frank can’t blame him, he really can’t, but...Batman’s nowhere to be found, they’re handling it, and he about died.

Antoine’s on duty right now, and has been more often than not. That mess at the asylum dredged up some nasty memories. Frank gets it. He does. But the kid’s gonna be sorry if he sleeps in that chair again.

If he doesn’t move, Frank’s happy to go get Trent and make him move. It’s for his own good. But he’s going to try the nice route first. He knows what he’d rather have.

Jason’s asleep, one arm hanging off the bed and the other flung over his face. He’s breathing easy enough, with no signs of nightmares (he’s ripped some stitches once already), but he’s half-squirmed out of his blankets. Frank sighs, remembers when Sam was little and would, somehow, manage to kick his blankets halfway across the room, fling a leg off the mattress, and still wake up bouncy.

Kids.

He pulls the blankets down, settles Jason’s arms by his sides, and tucks him back in. There.

Frank had hoped, just a little, that Antoine would be awake. But no. Of course not. He’s young, he hasn’t suffered the horrors of an out back yet. He doesn’t know any better.

He sighs and shuffles closer to shake him awake. He feels bad about it, is the thing, and if he could, he’d happily turn around and leave. But it’s for the best; the shadows under his eyes are halfway to his damn jaw, he’s pale and sickish-looking, and Frank will bet money that he’ll get some nice cracks out of his joints when he gets up. So he crouches down, reaches over, and gives him a little shake.

“C’mon, Antoine. Wake up, bud.”

He does, sort of, jolting upright and leading with his right fist. Just like he did last time. And just like last time, it’s sloppy and wild and Frank easily tips to the side to avoid it.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Come on. Time for bed.”

“F-Frank…?”

“Yeah.” Now that he’s not running on fight-or-flight, it’s safe to ruffle his hair. “Time for bed.”

“But…”

“I’m gonna take over for you, okay? You need a night’s sleep in a bed, not a chair.”

Antoine blinks a few times before shaking his head and settling back into the chair with a sleepy, “Said I’d--”

“Nah-uh. Come on.” He stands up, knee cracking, and holds out his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Can’t.” This sorry, stubborn little… “M’good. Chair’s comfy.”

“Up we go.”

**“Can’t.”** This is new. Frank goes back down so they’re at eye level and waits. “I gotta stay here.”

“ _ Somebody’s _ gotta stay here, bud,” Frank says gently. “I’m gonna take over for you so you can sleep and not wake up all hunched over.”

“I gotta stay here,” Antoine insists, voice low and borderline frantic. “I gotta stay here, this is my fault--”

Where’s Mark and his bag of sedatives when you need him?

“Hey-hey, knock that off.” Frank gives him a little shake. “This is Batman’s fault. And Scarecrow’s. And okay, maybe we shouldn’t have signed up to pick a fight with the Bat, but--”

“Uh-uh.” He straightens up, grimacing as he does so, and pokes at a bruise on his wrist. Frank resists the urge to make him stop it. “Something was up and I  **knew** something was up and I didn’t--”

“Shh.” Now he does tug his fingers away from the bruise. “Stop that, and listen. There was nothing you-or anybody else-could’ve done to keep him from making questionable life choices. You hear? Nothing about this is your fault--”

“If I’d been paying attention--”

“We were in way over our heads--”

“The fucking Amazon all over again--”

And there it is. Frank’s been waiting, a little, for that to come up. Antoine doesn’t like to talk about it, says he’s over it, and most of the time that’s true. Just like most of the time Riley’s okay with cookouts. Just like most of the time Frank can drive at night.

Most of the time being the key phrase.

“No, it’s not,” he says carefully. “Everybody made it out, everybody’s fine, and that wasn’t your fault, either, you know that--”

Antoine laughs. Well. He makes a noise related to laughter, but it’s broken and very unsettling.

“Something wasn’t right,” he says, breathing still too fast and too shallow. “I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t want--I didn’t know how to-- _ Jesus Christ _ \--”

“Come here.” Frank leans up and over and tugs him into a...it’s meant as a hug, but Antoine’s ramrod straight and shaking. “Come here, come on...there we go. There we go. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

Antoine resists the hug for all of five seconds before going limp and letting himself be rocked a bit. Hey, it doesn’t matter if you’re two or twenty, it works. There’s probably some sorta science behind it.

“Sh-sh-sh...you’re good, you’re good, I gotcha…”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, and Frank tightens his grip. “I’m sorry, I just--I don’t know what got into me--”

“Stress and overtired. Don’t be sorry.”

“But--”

“Shh.” He pats his shoulder. “Just settle down now. Come on, deep breaths.”

Frank seriously considers going to get Mark and his bag of sedatives anyway; the shaking isn’t stopping and Antoine sounds like he’s about to start hyperventilating. But he manages to keep himself together, and when Frank moves to let go of him he doesn’t fall out of the chair or anything.

“You good?”

It’s obvious he’s not, but he shrugs and nods anyway.

“I’m good.”

Frank lets him have that, because what’s a man got if he doesn’t have his pride, and stands up--owwowow, old, getting old is awful, floors are your new enemy. Wow.

“Don’t make me call Trent. I’ll take over, you need a decent night’s sleep.” Antoine’s quiet for a few minutes, but he does finally struggle upright. Good. “Go on.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m not asking.”

“Okay.” He yawns and rubs at his jaw, visibly cringing at the stubble. “G’night…”

He stumbles off and Frank settles down in his place. He’s tired. It’s...it’s been a long few days. He’ll be glad, truth be told, when this is all over. He can fly blind. It’s not unheard of, to fly blind. But he’s never liked having to. That’s what contingency plans are for.

Jason sighs, squirms a little bit before going still again, and Frank pulls out his tablet to check the drones’ settings and make sure nobody’s malfunctioning. They don’t seem to be, but they’re not picking anything up, and...well...he’s not sure, nobody is, how much of Batman is still there. Does he know how to use all his gadgets? Who knows. Not them. Frank’s hoping no, but Jimmy’s rightfully paranoid and he’s been updating the programming as much as he can, under the circumstances.

What was that--nothing. Absolutely nothing. Frank sort of wishes it was something. Not knowing is awful.

Maybe Batman’s dead. That would be perfectly fine. Preferable, even. But he doubts that. They should be so lucky.

Scans are blank. Scans are always blank. Scans, searches...he’s nowhere. It’s infuriating.

Never mind. They’ll find him. He  **has ** to be at least injured, right? Surely.

Out of nowhere, Frank has the horrible idea of a squad hefting up a piece of rubble and letting him out of whatever hidey-hole he’d gotten stuck in. Maybe...just...nope, nothing there either.

_ Where are you, you son of a bitch? _

Zilch. He sets the tablet aside and looks up at the ceiling, eyes tired, and pops his neck. They’ll find him eventually, Frank’s positive.

He just hopes it’s not when he pops out of a grate to slaughter them all.

THE END


	23. It's All Coming Together

“Why are we here again?”

Antoine shrugs and fishes his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.

“Boss is here to see a guy.”

“No shit. Got anything better?”

“Nope.”

This is not an acceptable answer. Jimmy eyes the laptop in the passenger’s seat, weighs his chances, and lunges for it. Antoine chokes on his cigarette, but by now Jimmy’s safe in the back, forbidden fruit clutched safely in his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing why we’re here.” There’s panicked sputtering from the front. Jimmy ignores it-the best way to get Antoine to  **chill** is just to steamroll over him-and opens the laptop. “Come on, you know you’re curious.”

“Not that curious!” More coughing. “The boss is gonna kill you when he finds out you messed with his computer! And then he’ll kill me, for not stopping you.”

“I held you at gunpoint, relax. I’m not gonna read his e-mails, I just wanna see why we’re here.”

“Seriously? What the hell--no. No. This is entirely your fault, I am  **leaving--** ”

“C’mon, it’ll take me like, five minutes.”

“I  _ like _ this job,” Antoine hisses. “It’s  _ relaxing _ . Nothing  _ happens _ . And more importantly, I haven’t gotten the third degree over that verbal mishap in Bahia--”

Jimmy laughs.

“I can’t believe you told the guy--”

“Shut up. No. When he kills you, I am not stepping in unless it’s to help hide your remains.”

Fair.

“Yeah, yeah, I know--here we go!” There, that wasn’t so hard! Okay, let’s...whoa, Nelly. “Uh. Antoine. Maybe, um. Maybe drive away.”

“What?”

“Put the car in gear and gun it and don’t look back.”

“Why?” He twists around, one hand hanging out the window. “What now?”

“Look.”

The guy the Knight’s here to see is. Uh. Jimmy’s not totally sure he’s a man. He’s huge, not a hair on his head-not even eyebrows-and there’s a gnarly scar under his chin that looks like someone tried to cut his throat. What the hell. Scrolling turns up scary stories involving, among other things, pulling somebody’s leg out of its socket for intel. Apparently the guy had talked.

Antoine starts the car and Jimmy puts the laptop back. They’ve got all the time in the--wait. Antoine started the car.

“Man, I was kidding a little--”

“There’s the boss.”

Oh. Oh, good--oh, crap.

That’s the Knight, all right, but hot on his heels is the big scary guy. Trent something. Jimmy votes they call him Monstro and just go with that.

“Drive. Drive away.”

“But--”

“He brought it on himself, you know he ninja’d his way in and pissed this guy off!” His voice didn’t crack, he’s not a teenager, it just...well… “Drive away!”

Too late. The Knight hops into the passenger seat and then. Then. Then the back door opens and the giant is in the car.

Oh, Jesus. Jimmy likes his legs where they are, please, Lord, have mercyyyyyyyyy. Why does Antoine get to drive? This isn’t fair at all.

Monstro doesn’t lunge at him and tear him from limb. He just turns, thrusts out a meaty hand, and rumbles, “Trent Ages.”

Mother.

“J.” He can do this. “Jimmy Rogers.” Dear God. The hand is big. The hand could crush his hand like it’s made of brown sugar. “Hi.”

“Where to, sir?” Antoine is a lucky bastard and Jimmy hates him now. “Back to the hotel?”

**“Mm-hm.”**

The car goes. Monstro-Trent-pops his neck and adjusts his backpack between his knees.

“So we’re gonna kill the Batman, huh?”

“That’s the idea.” Jimmy’s still skeptical. Antoine might have faith, but that’s his problem. “Um. You got a vendetta or something?”

“Nah.” Is that good or bad? “I’m just here to see what happens.”

Oh. That’s good. Right? Right.

“Me, too.”

**“What ** ** _happens_ ** ** is that Batman ends the night ** ** _dead_ ** **,”** the Knight growls. Sure, sure. Antoine just reaches for the radio.

“Let’s see what we get.” The only thing coming in is some Stone Temple Pilots song, and he leaves it and hangs a hand back. “Antoine Drouot. Nice to meet you.”

“Trent Ages.” Trent squints at the radio and says nothing about it. “So why are you here? Bat insult your mother or something?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Antoine says dryly, and Jimmy makes a note to tell their new friend that that means,  _ a weirdo broke into my hotel room and I was impressed enough to say HELL YEAH. _ Antoine hates that explanation, but it’s true and he really can’t argue about it. He’ll live. “How long are we gonna be at the hotel?”

**“We’re leaving tomorrow night,”** the Knight says. He’s on his laptop again, but Jimmy can’t see what he’s pulled up.  **“Headed somewhere rainy.”**

Great. Rain and glasses don’t mix, but hey! He probably won’t have to bathe in sunscreen, though, so that’s nice.

That, and whoever they’re going to find  **has** to be less scary than this guy. Right?

THE END


	24. Squid

The only reason Jason isn’t hiding in the bathroom-or even, like, inside a Cobra drone-is because Drouot isn’t actually paid enough for this.

But he’s guiltily tempted to just...give him a raise and go hide. Like Home Depot workers! He won’t, he won’t, but...but…

“I’m so sorry! Gosh, I didn’t even-oh! Oh, dear--”

He remembers this guy, is the really horrendous thing. Sid the Squid, notorious in Gotham’s Underworld for suffering a comedy of errors. That’s it, that’s his claim to fame. He’s a lousy goon, clumsy and awkward, and the only reason he’s still alive is because he’s sort of an accidental jester. If Jason’s remembering right, the only one he hasn’t worked for is Scarecrow, who does not suffer jesters of any kind.

Right now he’s one of Penguin’s, which is why he’s here; Penguin sent people to deliver guns. Jason’s sure Sid’s presence is because Cobblepot is a petty bastard.*

“Oh dear-I didn’t mean--”

**Crash!**

Jason cringes. Across the room, Ages looks utterly incredulous. Drouot just looks tired. Is he really sure...yeah, he, uh, he can’t, in all good conscience, just leave.

Even though it’s tempting.

But he isn’t  **that** terrible of a person, which means he goes over to, at least, offer moral support.

“Everything running like it should?”

Maybe he should have just hidden; Sid squeaks and flings a box of bullets sideways. They. Go.  **Everywhere.** Drouot abandons whatever mask of ‘this is fine’ he was going for and fishes his cigarettes and lighter out of his jacket.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Um. Mister. Mister Knight, sir.”

Jason will give him money  **and** a free tank to never, ever say ‘Mister Knight’ again. But he can’t really say that, or even do it, so he just settles for trying to look relaxed and...mostly...nonthreatening. Sets his back against a drone and loosens his shoulders. Sid goes, somehow, even paler and too late, Jason wonders if he’s accidentally nailed the Crime Lord look.  **Real** crime lords just sit back and summon minions to do their murdering! And, well...there are minions here. Kind of a lot of minions.

Oops.

“We’re. We’re almost done bringing things in,” Sid continues, looking like he wants to vomit. “Your, um. Mister. Mister Dr--Mister D--” Drouot looks about to smack him. Ages just looks delighted and Jason figures he’ll have to let him have the Mister D thing. Pick your battles and all. “He signed for everything, unless that’s not okay, in which case you can sign for it, right here--”

“It’s fine.” Anything to make him go away. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“I. I don’t know?”

Ages suddenly decides to fling a meaty arm over Sid’s shoulders. Sid looks like he’s going to start crying at any moment.

“Take your time, buddy.” Traitor. “No rush. Mister D an’ me’ll show you around. Isn’t that right?”

“I have a thing.” Thing? What thing? Jason want in on this thing. It’s gotta be better than this. “Sorry. Have fun.”

Drouot speedwalks away. Well, Sid’s not in danger. And he’s not unattended. So...well…

“Tell Penguin I appreciate this,” he says shortly, pushing himself upright and wondering  **what** just cracked. Something in his upper body, that’s all he knows. “Ages, don’t…”

He’s not sure what he wants. Break him? Leave him alone? Maybe both. Either way, Ages just nods and half-guides, half-drags Sid towards a Rattler that’s been acting up. Sid doesn’t appear to want to go.

“C’mere, look at this…”

Talk about a blast from the past.

THE END

  
  


*He is, but Sid is actually here because  _ Dove _ is a petty bitch; Sid bugs her, Jason’s life choices are crap, and this, well, it’s, uh, it’s two birds with one stone.


	25. Opportunities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know how we got here and I don’t care.

“I feel like I should make a bird joke,” Jim says, leaning against his car and digging his cigarettes out of his jacket. Robin sneezes and wedges himself a little further under Dove’s wing-er. Arm.

“Fuck off, Jim,” Dove tells him. “Kid takes a trip into the river and you’re gonna make fun of him? Wow.”

“Yeah, commish,” Robin croaks. “I coulda drowned.”

Jim fishes his cigarettes out of his coat and corrects, “I’m not making fun of Robin.”

She gives him a flat look and says again, “Fuck off, Jim.”

Though come to think of it, Robin does indeed resemble a baby bird that fell out of the nest. Not a bald one, but a scraggly, screeching one that can sort of glide from a tree stump to the ground. He’s a wet, bedraggled mess and truth be told, he’s damn lucky he didn’t get dragged into the bay because of that stupid cape. Does it detach? It should. If it doesn’t, Batman should fix that.

Robin cackles before convulsing in another sneeze and pulling the towel into a hood. Jim sighs, because what is he, fourteen? He shouldn’t be out here. There’s nothing he can do about it, but he’s always been skittish about the idea of Robin.

“That wasn’t smart, kid.”

Robin flashes him a cocky grin from behind his Styrofoam cup.

“But I got ‘im,” he says, voice stiff in an effort to force it through chattering teeth. “Was th-the—”

“Less talking, more drinking,” Dove says, and he takes a sip, pulls his knees up to his chest. “Thank you.” She leans away and the noise the kid makes before he catches himself is absolute distress. Jim won’t make a bird joke. But it’s tempting. “Hold still, I’m gonna try and—”

The distressed noise returns when she gets her fingers pressed into the towel on his head and starts scrubbing. But he holds still-well, as still as he can, given the rough treatment-with one hand curled protectively over the cup lid.

“It’s something,” she says at last, and when she pulls her hands away Robin burrows miserably against her side again. “Drink.”

The kid draws his cup under his chin and rasps, “I’m gonna die.”

“Don’t be a dumbass.”

“I  **am** . I think I swallowed something squishy.”

Jim grimaces. Given the state of Gotham’s waters, that’s…that’s not unlikely.

“You know what they say, kiddo,” Dove tells him. “Couldn’t swim, couldn’t float…”

“I’m serious!”

“If it hasn’t killed you by now, you’ll be fine,” she says smoothly, but she adjusts the shock blanket so it’s a little snugger around his shoulders. “Finish that, it’ll help dilute whatever you swallowed.”

Or, at the very least, inspire him to puke it out. Jim’s sympathetic. He’s taken his share of impromptu swims, and even barring the recent concern of Croc, they’re never pleasant.

Fifteen minutes later, Robin’s asleep in what looks like the most uncomfortable position possible; he’s pressed as close to Dove as he can get, but his shoulders are up around his ears and one hand’s clasping the blanket closed at his neck.

“Well, now I’m really tempted to make that joke.”

Dove looks like she’s going to give him the finger, but refrains. And he thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to disturb Robin, until—

“Commissioner.”

GODDAMMIT, BATMAN.

“You saw him,” he accuses, and Dove grins at him, just a little too sharp, a little too close to Penguin for his liking.

“Mm-hm.”

Humph.

“He’s fine,” he tells Batman. “Just worn out from his swim.”

“Hn.”

Ahh. So verbose, is Batman.

The man steps around him and then Robin is cradled in his arms. The movement wakes him, just enough to crack his eyes open and mumble, “T’anks for th’ hot choc’l’te.”

“Sure, hon. Go back to sleep.”

“An’ for th’ warm.”

“Sure, kid.”

“Night, commish.”

He has to. He’s a father and he has to. Batman will appreciate this, he’s sure.

“Dove.”

“What.”

“What do you give a sick bird?”

Robin sneezes. He’s always been a helpful sort.

**“Jim.”**

“Tweetment.”

Batman doesn’t really do anything, but Jim knows he’s laughing on the inside. Robin laughs on the outside, for all of two seconds before he sneezes again and curls miserably into Batman’s arms, pressing his forehead against the chest plating. Jim wonders how that’s comfortable. Robins are weird. The first one used to do handstands... **on** Batman.

(That Batman didn’t even seem to notice was nothing short of hysterical.)

Dove bites back a laugh and Jim should let it go, he knows he should let it go, but…

“There, see? Birds of a feather--”

“Fuck  **off** , Jim.”

THE END


	26. Stitches=True Companionship

Mark’s entire apartment is clean, his slow cooker has a pot roast in it, and he’s successfully hidden from that one downstairs neighbor that keeps trying to set him up with her granddaughter for the whole day.

So of course something goes awry.

He’s rifling through his cupboard for his box of rooibos-he saw it earlier, he knows he did-when there’s an absolute  **pounding** on his front door. Somebody had better be dying, this is his first day off in forever…

Grumbling darkly, he abandons his hunt for tea and goes to answer the door, fully prepared to give whoever it is an earful. He rips it open, mouth already forming words, and just. Can’t.

There are three men on his doorstep. Or. Two men and one... **thing** . He knows the ginger; Jimmy Rogers, walking disaster. The other? Don’t know, don’t care--wow, that arm is shredded. As in, torn. And bleeding.

Great. Great! He should have known his nice day wasn’t destined to last.

“Mark!” Jimmy sounds genuinely surprised. “Shit, man, I didn’t know we were coming to see you. How the hell are you?”

“What do you want.”

“Okay, so we pissed off some people…”

Oh, no. None of that.

“Don’t involve me in your crap, Rogers--”

“This isn’t my fault--”

“That’s what you said about that drone that freaked--”

“I lied about that one! This really isn’t my fault--”

**“Doctor Jones.”**

Uh. Okay, there, Darth Vader.

“Yeah.”

Next thing he knows, Shredded Blond is being thrust at him.

**“Fix him.”**

Up close, Shredded Blond appears to have been hit with a...rake? Maybe? Mark’s definitely thinking gardening tool; there’s leaves on him and probably in him. Great. That’s just asking for an infection.

“This isn’t a hospital.”

**“Now.”**

Hey, he did his bit.

“Get in,” he says. Then, just so Jimmy knows he’s ticked, “This is your fault and you’re still not allowed to touch anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

It’s like he’s just completely oblivious to his own stupidity. How? The man’s a brilliant programmer, Mark will give him that, but. He shouldn’t be alive.  **He smacked a bear.**

Whatever. Okay...yeah, that doesn’t look pretty. There’s no leaves actually in the wound, so that’s nice, but still. Still, man, what the hell…

“What happened.”

Shredded Blond shivers when the air conditioning hits his skin, but it perks him up.

“Mafia gardner. I think.”

**“Close enough,”** Darth Vader says. He’s looking at the mummified hand Mark found at some outdoor market. He’s pretty sure it’s a monkey’s, but it’s old, he doesn’t know. He didn’t want it, but, much like the copy of  _ The Boy in the Striped Pajamas _ he got given once, he feels too guilty to get rid of it*.  **“What is this?”**

“Don’t touch it.” Yeah, okay, it’s actually not as bad as it looks. Considering. “And you. What the fuck.”

“I didn’t mean to get attacked with a hand rake.”

Really.

“A hand rake.” Shredded Blond nods. “Seriously? What the-hiiiiii.” Darth Vader is now literally right here. “You’re in my light. Move.”

He moves. Shredded Blond laughs and Mark hits his uninjured arm to make him stop it and be still. Darth Vader makes an irritated noise, but he’ll just have to cope.

“I like this guy, boss.”

**“You would.”**

“Can we keep-ow! What the hell, man?”

“You’re fine.” Okay...just a little… “What do you want.”

“You’re invited to join a cult,” Jimmy says. Darth Vader sighs. Mark’s sympathetic, a little; Jimmy’s annoying but usually indispensable, which can lead to...problems. “A really exclusive--hey, Trent.”

What-woah. Um. Okay.

“Problem solved,” the giant says. “Dumpster’s a little full, but hey.”

**“Good.”** Darth Vader cracks his neck.  **“It’s not a cult.”** Huh. Sounds like something a real cult leader would say.  **“We’re going to kill Batman.”**

“Yeah, that sounds like a cult to me,” Mark says dryly. “Or at least really, really dumb. Move again and I take your arm off.” Shredded Blond doesn’t answer. Darth Vader is suddenly in the light again and this time Mark gives him a good shove. “Stay out of my damn light. Again: what do you want.”

“Aw, c’mon, Mark, it’ll be fun,” Jimmy says. “Well. You know. Things might happen.”

“You’re not convincing me-- **you ** hold still,  **you** stand over there,  **out of my fucking light** , or on God I will stab both of you.”

The room is silent for a few minutes, and then the big guy-Trent?-bumps into the couch, swears, and says, “So did I just stuff a body in a dumpster for no reason?”

There! All done.

“Why are you trying to kill Batman?”

**“Personal reasons.”**

Eh. Given what he knows about Batman, there shouldn’t be too many injuries. But then again, these dumbasses apparently enraged a Mafia Gardener. So.

Choices, choices; stay here and hide from the downstairs neighbor, or join the cult? Hm.

“What the hell,” he says. “Fine.”

THE END

*True story. I HATE this book. Hate it. But I can’t bring myself to pawn it off on somebody, so here it sits, shoved to the back of a bookshelf.


	27. Lingering Effects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was rereading The Cult (I want to do something exploring Jason’s side of that one day-there’s all sorts of insecurities and concerns I can get my fingers into-disappeared parental figure, maybe some old acquaintances dragged into said cult…) and had a Thought.

Bruce has a headache.

He’s had the headache for as long as he can remember. The droning, the lack of food, the flickering lights…

No. Focus. Overthinking is a sin. Blackfire said so. He’s saved now, he will not sin. The headache is nothing. It will pass. It is a warning, perhaps, that he is…is drifting too close to the line…or…

Bruce has a  _ headache _ .

They are walking, and have been walking for what feels like hours. It’s possible. The sewers are vast. They have to be, to house them all.

The light up ahead is bright and steady. Many lanterns, then, rather than the handful of markers located on the path. The droning is louder there, and Bruce has a hazy idea that this is their destination.

Maybe there’ll be food.

There is not food. This is the altar, with its stone table and gold chalice that none of them are permitted to touch save for when it’s filled with water and passed around for them all to take a sip. That’s fine. There’s no reason to touch it otherwise.

The chalice is set aside now, and the altar is occupied. Unwillingly; the boy strapped there is spewing obscenities and threats in fairly equal measure. He looks. Familiar?

No. A passing fancy. This  _ headache… _ he can’t think straight, that’s all.

The screaming stops and the boy looks at him, bewildered, and says, “Batman?”

Yes. No. He doesn’t know.

There’s a knife in his hand and he doesn’t know how or why. But he knows what he’s supposed to do with it. It’ll stop this  _ infernal _ headache-!

“B?” Soft, confused and more than a little afraid. He doesn’t know this kid. So why is he acting like this? “What’re you doing?”

The chalice is on the floor, in position already. Good. One less thing to worry about. Bruce runs his hand through the boy’s hair-huh, feels like he’s done this before-and pulls his head back.

“Batman, you gotta listen to me, you don’t wanna--” A little more, or the cup won’t catch the blood of the lamb. There.  _ “Dad--” _

_ Jason? _

Too late; the knife, crafted centuries ago for this very purpose, is already slicing through the boy’s throat, pale skin dyed red.

And the red runs into the cup in a soft, hellish waterfall, quickly tapering off into a soft  _ plik-plik-plik! _

_ Oh, God-- _

Blackfire is there, lifting the chalice, pressing it against his lips and the contents are  _ still warm-- _

And Bruce wakes up. The altar is gone. The chalice and Blackfire are gone. And Jason--

\--is asleep in the car beside him, slumped quietly,  _ trustingly _ against his shoulder, body awkwardly pulled half-away to avoid exacerbating Bruce’s injuries.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Alfred. Alfred is driving. They are leaving, falling back. Gotham has crumbled.

“Just a dream,” he murmurs, voice rough. Alfred raises The Eyebrow of Disproval but says nothing.

Let him say nothing. He has no desire to talk about…anything, really. Not right now.

Maybe never.

He eases his arm out from under Jason and wraps it around him, pulling him over and ignoring the twinge in his side. Jason mumbles something that sounds vaguely like ‘run for it’ but could conceivably be ‘the book was better’. It’s a crapshoot. Bruce doesn’t care. It could be ‘take that gearshift and shove it down your fucking dick’ and he’d be happy to hear it because it would mean he’s alive and well, not…Bruce didn’t…

“Bruce?”

“Go back to sleep, Jay.”

“M’kay.”

He’s silent after that, not moving much other than to burrow into his cape a little more. Bruce ruffles his hair-ow, his arm is not supposed to move that way right now-and plunks his head against the window. A few minutes later, he’s pulled back into the dark river of sleep.

This time, he does not dream.

THE END


	28. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is old. This is also entirely in response to a panel in Genesis that creeped me out. That’s it. (Said panel is included with the Tumblr edition of this, for the curious/foolish.)

Jason can’t feel his arms. He can feel his shoulders-a steady, throbbing pain from being wrenched up and back, but anything past the rotator cuffs may as well not be there.

That’s his first thought. The second is,  **when did I wake up?**

Because he was asleep, or unconscious. He knows he was because he didn’t hurt, then, and it must’ve been nice dreams because his face is wet.

He’s not sure which is worse; nice dreams or waking nightmares.

Whatever the case, he’s awake now and he doesn’t know why, just that he  **is** and that he’s hurting.

The overhead light’s still out, but the candles are lit-the flickering behind his eyelids would be enough even without the faint smell of wax. He always hopes, a little, that they’ll burn the place down (if they take him with it, well, he’ll be out of his misery), but they never do.

It’s quiet. And he doesn’t understand why, because if he’s going to be awake shouldn’t  **he** be here? He’s not quiet, he’s all laughter and bad jokes and  **oh, come on, Todders, participate in the conversation!**

**Bruce?**

If Bruce is here, why is he still…

Bruce isn’t here. Bruce isn’t coming, he has a new one now. Jason’d forgotten, for a minute.

**M’I dead?**

Is this Hell? He doesn’t…did he do somethin’ to deserve Hell? He’d wanted to help people, honest, and before that he’d just been tryin’ to stay alive, but maybe wants don’t factor in ‘n--*

The tape over his mouth has never seemed more restrictive.

He unsticks his lashes (blood? Sweat? He can never tell anymore.) and cracks his eyes open to slits, hyperaware of the puffiness of the lids.

The light’s burning bright and it takes him a second to recognize the dots and slashes of yellow as eyes and teeth.

He’s here.

He’s here but he’s silent and that’s worse, somehow, because  **how long has he been there** and  **what has he done now?**

Maybe if he doesn’t move, he’ll go away.

The eyes don’t blink and the splintery yellow teeth seem to multiply and he finally closes his eyes in an effort to…to pretend, at least a little, that he’s not there.

When he risks peeking again, the yellow is gone and the candles are out.

He doesn’t go back to sleep.

THE END

*There is a comic where Batman sees Jason (well…sorta…) in Hell. And. You gotta be kiddin’ me here. Bad DC. BAD. *smacks with rolled-up newspaper*


	29. Misunderstandings

“I DON’T WANNA BE ROBIN!”

Bruce doesn’t know what happened.

He’d found the boy pickpocketing a couple and remedied that, intended to feed him and take him somewhere safe (Leslie, not the cave, he doesn’t adopt  **every** child he trips over, Alfred). Unfortunately, it…hadn’t worked out.

And by hadn’t worked out, Bruce means that the child is kicking, screaming, and generally being very uncooperative.

And confusing.

“You aren’t going to be Robin.” Where did that even…? “I’m going to get you something to eat, that’s all.”

Two things happen. One, a red blur drops out of the sky. Two, Jason takes one look and bursts out laughing.

“Jeeze, B, what’d you do?”

Don’t help, Jason.

“Nothing,” he grinds out. The boy in his grip kicks him in the shin and shouts, “Kick his ass, Red!”

What is happening. What is this.

“S’all right, Marco. He’s not gonna hurt ya. Let ‘im go, B.  **Now.** ”

He does. Grudgingly. Marco darts behind Jason, latches onto his jacket, and whispers, “You’re not gonna let him make me Robin, right? I don’t wanna be Robin, Red, I don’t wanna live in a cave and eat rats and—”

Bruce is beginning to think this is somehow Jason’s fault. The continued chuckling is not helping.

“Trust me, kiddo, you’re not gonna be Robin. He’s got one already.”

“Robin doesn’t live in a cave,” Bruce points out. Marco’s expression is comical, in a terrible sort of way. “And he doesn’t eat rats.”

“Bullshit!”

“Shh.” Jason reaches back and gives him a shove. “Go home, brat. He won’t come after you.”

Marco vanishes with a speed that makes Bruce a little bit jealous. But right now, he needs an explanation.

“What was that.”

Jason sounds like he’s grinning under that helmet when he says, “It’s a valid fear, B. I mean, I stole tires, got adopted, became Robin, got tortured. Then you got another one! Can you blame kids for being a little wary? You go through us like a Wii remote goes through batteries.”

Another day, he will corral his children and straighten things out. But that day is not this day.

“What have you told them.”

“Why is this my fault?” He presses a hand, fingers splayed, against his chest. “Ouch. That hurts. Hits me right here.”

“Hood.” The urge to de-cowl and rub his face is strong. “We both know you’ve told them scary stories.”

“Yeah.” Jason cracks his neck and swears. “Aww, man, now I gotta be you, God  **dammit** .”

“What.”

He makes a few exaggerated turns, keeping his head and neck immobile, and growls, “I am the night.”*

**“Hood.”**

“Hey, it’s your own fault for scaring people. Come on, B. Kid touches your car and is never seen again? That kinda thing gets around.”

Why, Jason. Why are you Like This.

“Really.”

“Yup.” He gives Bruce a queen-wave. “Leave the alley kids alone, B. Next time I’ll have to kick your ass to keep my reputation.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Bruce with a nagger of a headache.

THE END

* _ Lego Batman Family Matters _ gives us an example of Jason’s Bat-voice. It’s precious. It cleared my acne and everything.


	30. Tires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was iconic and I am BITTER that the 80s readers didn’t appreciate a good thing when they had it.

For a second, Jason’s convinced he’s hit his head or inhaled some crazy’s Toxin of the Week or maybe even straight-up died and didn’t realize it.

Knocking his funny bone into a wall hurts like a mother fucker, though, so he’s apparently alive. And probably lucid.

Batman’s car is parked and silent, and, as Jason finds out when he gets the nerve to put his hand on it, not even warm. It’s **huge**, and up close he can see how it can go that fast, how it can jump raising bridges without so much as a whine.

Wow.

It’s not crushed or scratched or showin’ any signs of damage at all. He has no idea what it’s doin’ down here, and the best guess he’s got is that Batman is a damn moron.

The **tires** on this thing, wow…Jason puts a hand on one of ‘em, because how many chances do you get to **touch** the Batmobile, and it’s twice as big across. Little worn, too, like they’ve been chasin’ Joker or Ivy or somebody. A few somebodies, probably.

Are there…

Wait. Wait, wait, wait, Really. Really?

Yeah. The treads are bat-shaped. Talk about an ego…

Jason snorts. Batman’s a nut. Okay, so he’s kinda helpful, but dude, there comes a time that somebody needs to say, ‘now Batman, it’s a little silly to put your symbol on everything you own’. Does he have bat-shaped reading glasses? A bat-bed? A bat-house? (Okay, maybe not that, someone would’ve noticed, but still.)

Whatever.

He should go, before Batman gets back and kidnaps him or whatever the hell he does to people that get too close to his car. But…

Look. It’s cold. And while he can-and has-make up a little cardboard shelter, he doesn’t wanna have to. It’s no guarantee that he won’t be found by some old lady, a little Toddsicle in an alley. He’s found people like that before. And rent’s pricy, all right? There’s only so many options available, and most of ‘em are less than ideal. But Batman’s tires…he could have rent and some semi-decent food for a couple’a months, easy.

Batman hasn’t come back yet. The car’s cold, so maybe he’s just left it here while he goes and does…whatever the fuck it is he does when he’s not punching homicidal clowns in the face. If Jason’s quick, he can at least get one, and then go from there.

And he is quick. You gotta be, down here.

It’s not like he’ll get caught. Nobody’s noticed him before, they’re not gonna start now.

* * *

He’s got three outta four, and yeah, he probably should’ve thanked whatever lazy lucky stars he’s got and called it quits, but…he’s never been a quitter.

When a shadow looms over him, he kinda wishes he’d learned that skill.

He senses the grabbing hand a second before it can snatch his collar and ducks, rolls under the car and bolts. He gets maybe three feet before he’s yanked off his feet and the Batman-all six feet of **JUSTICE** and two hundred pounds of **THIS IS GONNA HURT**-is dangling him in the air, scowling.

**“Where are the other three.”**

Judgmental prick. Whatever ‘oh shit’ had been running through Jason’s head is promptly replaced with ‘fuck you’.

He remembers he’s still holding the iron and swings it with everything he’s got, feels it connect with Batman’s stomach. He’s as surprised as anyone when he’s dropped, iron clattering to the ground.

Not that he’s gonna complain.

He sprints for it, dives between a pair of buildings and emerges on the sidewalk. There’s a crowd of bar-hoppers and he ducks through them, scoring a wallet on the way, and darts across the street. A taxi driver screams at him to ‘watch where you’re going, you fuckin’ brat!’ and he flips ‘em off before ducking between another pair of buildings-one of ‘em the one he’s desperately clinging to because it’s not as drafty as some.

He stumbles through his window and onto his mattress, gasping for breath and feeling his heart try to batter its way through his ribs and skin.

Holy. Shit. He just. Outran. The **Batman**.

He laughs, a little hysterical, and topples forward. No one is ever gonna believe this, but holy crap, what are the chances…

Zilch, apparently. His door opens and the Goddamn Batman sweeps into the room, grabs him, and growls, **“Are you hungry?”**

THE END


	31. Reassurances

Dick would call it stalking, Alfred would call it ridiculous, and Bruce calls it checking up.

Whatever the preferred term, it entails ensuring Jason’s not bleeding out on his bathroom floor without Jason knowing about this. He doesn’t do it **that** often, but Jay had a run-in with Crane earlier tonight and he has no idea what happened.

Usually, the answer is nothing. This time, the cowl does not show the apartment’s solitary skeleton going to bed or watching TV or what-have-you. This time, the skeleton is curled on the bathroom floor.

Breaking in is easier than it should be, but he reasons that Jay may not have been in the right state of mind to reset his security all the way. Whatever the case, he’s inside in under five minutes.

Jason’s huddled in a ball, arms over his head. He’s still in his work clothes, sans helmet, but most of his weapons are in a pile (unlike him) outside the bathroom. Bruce can’t see any blood on him, but he’s clearly been exposed to Crane’s poison; he’s whimpering softly and trembling, occasionally flinching at noises outside.

“Jason.” Bruce settles down next to him and tugs the cowl off. “Jay. Can you hear me?”

“Please…”

“Jason.”

“No more, please, sir…m’sorry…won’t do it again…”

Oh, God.

It’s only rational, really, that he’d be thrown back to his time with Joker, but Bruce has **no** idea how to make that better. Before, on the handful of instances this had happened, Jason had been comforted well enough with a hug and a soft, steady stream of reassurances. Now? Bruce has no idea.

“Jay-lad, it…it’s Bruce.” Jason doesn’t react, poorly or otherwise. “Can you hear me?”

His only answer is a whine and a soft, “Please, stop…”

This particular batch, Bruce knows from unpleasant experience, has to wear off. And it will, eventually. Unfortunately, sedating the victims causes a deadly reaction, so there’s no other choice but to stay and make sure Jason doesn’t hurt himself, regardless of the fallout.

“Okay, Jay,” he breathes, “okay. I’m going to take your jacket off, all right? I’m not…” He knows (hopes) it’s the toxin, but that doesn’t make this easier. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jason doesn’t respond at all the time, and Bruce leans over, starts working him out of his jacket. He’s boneless, breath coming in harsh pants and eyes barely open, and Bruce isn’t sure whether to be grateful or whether to wish for some kind of struggle, some echo of the fighter he picked up all those years ago.

But then, Jason was never one to resist during the other episodes. It wasn’t until the third time that Bruce determined why.

“Okay, Jay-bird.” Bruce turns him onto his back. “It’s all right, you’re all right. You ran into Crane earlier, do you remember?”

“Mm…”

Removing the body armor is a little harder, and that does provoke a reaction-a half-hearted attempt to get up, to get away.

“Hold still for me, Jay, please.”

He goes limp again, limbs slack and head lolling, and for a few sickening seconds Bruce is transported back to a small black tape and a too-loud gunshot.

“Hurts…”

“Shh.”

Boots next, and several knives, and as much as it kills him, Bruce leaves him there to hunt up something a little more comfortable.

And to put his weapons where he won’t be able to get to them easily. He suspects that was the idea behind the pile outside the bathroom door.

He finds sweats and a t-shirt that’s clearly loved and returns to the bathroom. Jason’s curled back into himself, eyes squeezed shut and hands clenching his hair.

“Jason.” Nothing. “Jason, I’m going to get you into some comfortable clothing, all right?” Still nothing. He lets go of his hair when Bruce tugs on the hem of his shirt, though, and remains pliable (though nowhere near helpful) while being redressed. “Okay, Jay-bird, okay. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He’s still silent and unmoving when Bruce gets him up (he grew up, dear God, last time Bruce had carried him he’d been fourteen, all knobby knees and elbows that were a damn menace to anything on a table) and half-carries, half-drags him out of the bathroom. His eyes are open, though, when he’s laid in his bed.

“B?”

“I’m here, Jay.” He tucks him in and smooths his hair out of his face. “I’m right here.”

“Mm…”

Any water Bruce tries to give him won’t stay down. His best bet is to sleep through this, if he can.

“Are you warm enough?”

Jason doesn’t look like he understands what Bruce is asking.

“Don’ go.”

“I’m not--”

“Please don’ go, I’ll be better, I swear--”

**Jay, no, no, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.**

“Shh, Jason.” There’s no way to make this right, but he has to try. “Shh. I’m here now, you’re okay.”

Jason’s not hearing him, or worse, not believing him.

“Please don’ leave me here, I’ll be better, jus’ don’ go I don’ wanna die--”

Bruce weighs the risks, figures he can handle the fallout, and pulls Jason into his arms.

“I’m here, Jay. I’m right here. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I’m here now, you’re safe, you’re in your own bed…”

Jason doesn’t struggle; for once, Bruce got it right. All he does is knot his hands around the cape and tuck his head under Bruce’s chin.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t leave me with him.”

He’s trembling again, practically vibrating in Bruce’s arms, and Bruce peels a hand away and feels around until he comes up with a squishy blanket (that’s Nightwing’s symbol...Dick does not need to know about this, but Bruce is tempted to tell him anyway) that’s half-falling off the bed, wraps it around his shoulders.

“You’re okay, Jay, you’re okay. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

The shaking doesn’t stop but the pleading does and eventually he slumps a little more, frantic pants slowly easing into shallow, even breaths. Bruce cups his head (his hair’s still soft, and it’s grown out enough that it’s trying to curl at the ends) and winces at the feeling of old scars on his scalp.

“M’I dead?”

**Oh, Jesus...**

“No, Jay.” He tightens his grip. “You ran into Crane earlier, that’s all. You’re okay.”

“But y’re here.”

“Yes.”

There’s a spell of confused silence before Jason apparently deems it too much work to think about things further-he presses tighter against Bruce with a breathy, “’Kay.”

There’s a crackle in his ear and Dick’s voice comes over the coms.

“B? You there?”

“Mm.”

“You find Jay?”

“He made it home. He’ll be fine.”

“Do I need to go over there?”

There’s canned laughter from somebody’s TV set and Jason cringes, draws into a ball as best he can. Bruce moves his hand over his shoulders, feeling old scars. They’ve blended together, now; there’s one he knows is from a run-in with one of Ivy’s plants, but it’s intersected by another he doesn’t recognize.

“No, I’m here already. Thanks, Dick.”

“You sure?”

Sometimes he thinks Dick thinks he’s incapable of making sure they don’t d-hurt themselves. He would like to point out that Dick not only made it to adulthood, he made it without falling off the ballroom chandelier and cracking his head on the floor. (There may or may not have been some barbed wire up there as a deterrent.)

“Yes.”

“Okay. Call me if you need me. I mean it.”

“Hn.” 

Jason’s fingers loosen on the cape and Bruce feels him force in a shuddery breath.

“B?”

“I’m here, Jay. I’ve got you.”

“Don’ go.”

“Shh.” He rubs his arms, feels him shiver. “Shh, shh. I’m here. I’m here and you’re safe, I promise.”

He moves so he’s more propped against Bruce’s shoulder, head against his collarbone. Bruce has an old (painful, now) memory of him doing the same at fourteen, after a screaming nightmare.

“Dad?”

“I’m here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He nods, sort of, and slumps further.

“’Kay.”

And that, Bruce thinks, is as good as it gets right now.

THE END


	32. Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That shark scared the CRAP out of me. THREE. FUCKING. TIMES: twice in City, once in the Nightwing DLC. Why, Oswald. Why would you do that. I trusted you to be the one with manners and you terrorize me like that. :(
> 
> The tie-in comics do have Jason visiting Arkham City, but I don’t know when this would fit in. Timeline? What timeline? Timelines are for cowards. We give no fucks in this house.

Out of all of them, Penguin’s the least sucky of the lot. He’s a businessman, Antoine tells himself. Okay, sure, he does some illegal stuff, so do lots of people in power. Point is, he’s not one of the freaks going, ‘I’m bored…why not set a fire station ablaze for dramatic irony?’ He’s…better than that. So he rolls with the bird theme from time to time. Okay, man, you do you. The boss…Antoine’s not sure what that theme is, but he’s got one. Cyberpunk Batman? Who knows. Who cares.

Whatever the case, he’s not dreading going to see the guy about the safehouses. The Knight’s not overly subdued, either, so this should be an easy in, easy out.

The Iceberg Lounge is located inside a museum. Not a cool, shit-comes-to-life-at-night museum, either. Oh, no. When they walk in, everything’s still dead/plastic/whatever, and it’s creepy. Of course it is. At least it’s normal-creepy, not Jonathan ‘I was mauled so I ran with it and now my face is a Halloween mask’ Crane. It’s the little things in life.

But still. Ugh. Museum dioramas are unsettling at best. The things inside all have that dead stare. The hyenas, in particular, are…he doesn’t like them. There. He said it.

“Think there’s much chance of a surprise party, boss?”

“No.” The Knight’s blatantly avoiding the hyena display. Antoine can’t blame him. “Penguin’s not that stupid.”

Yeah, but he’s greedy.

It’s dark in here, with only the floor lights available, and dim bulbs in the displays. That makes it all worse, and he’s not gonna lie, the crocodile, with its jaws wide open, gives him a small scare when they round the corner and it’s just  **there** .

The Iceberg is located past an exhibit called  _ Terrors of the Deep _ , which is an unreasonably ominous title. Also, Penguin doesn’t really count as a Terror, because he’s…uh…come on, man. Look at the guy. He makes stupid bird puns and he comes up to Antoine’s shoulder at best. Yeah, he’s got a bottle in his eye, but…it’s not like he put it there.

Oh, well.

The exhibit itself is straight-up scary, though. There’s not a lot of light, but every so often something will swim close to the glass, scales shimmering. Sometimes there’s teeth. Or appendages.

The boss stops and cocks his head at a larger tank. Seriously? Now is not the time to play tourist.

“There’s corpses in this one,” he says, and wow, Antoine is suddenly really grateful for the dark. “Talk about the food chain…”

Can they go? Antoine doesn’t want to be a corpse in a fish tank.

**Something ** moves in the tunnel above them, vanishing into dark waters, and then--

**WHAM!**

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT JESUS CHRIST--

A shark-an absolutely massive shark, with jaws that open wide enough to swallow him whole-butts against the glass hard enough to make it shudder. The boss steps back and says, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

Really. Really. Now, of all times, is  **not** the time for the Knight to decide to grow a sense of humor.

He tests his ability to develop eye beams. Either he doesn’t have them, or they suck, or maybe the armor’s just eye-beam-proof, because there’s not even, like, a puff of smoke. Just quiet amusement.

This is Penguin’s fault. His stupid jokes have rubbed off on the boss.

“Ah.” DAMMIT PENGUIN-- “You’ve met Tiny.”

Really.

Why, man. Why.

Penguin’s hat doesn’t even wobble as he limps towards them. Antoine wonders if he’s hairpinned it on or something.

“Cobblepot.”

Penguin smiles. Y’know, it’s not a nice smile. And it’s probably just the bad lighting, but his teeth look…pointy.

Businessman. It’s not his fault that he has maybe-pointy teeth. Crap genetics. Or good genetics, it’s all a matter of opinion, right? Right?

“Right this way, boys. You’re teasing my pet.”

Pet, sure. Ha.

The Iceberg is well-lit. It’s not a big place, maybe Starbucks-sized, but everything inside probably costs more than a whole Starbucks. And there’s more booze in it. Seriously, that whole back wall? So. Many. Bottles.

“Can I get you boys somethin’ to drink? Hot chocolate, even? Nasty weather out there.”

Antoine shakes his head. The boss is quiet for a few seconds too many before saying, “No. That’s not why we’re here.”

“Pity.” It is, kind of. Antoine’s seen the hot chocolates here. The whipped cream literally sparkles. He thinks there’s edible glitter in it. Maybe one day, when this is over, he’ll come in and try one. If it’s poisoned or something, well, there’s worse ways to go. “Ah, well, your loss-thank you, Miss Marquis.” He takes the wine glass from her and Antoine wonders, a little, when she appeared. Friggin’ Gotham. Everyone here has ninja skills. “Go and get that folder from my desk, would you?”

“Already did, sir. Here you go. And you need to sign for this.” What the hell? Where is she carrying all of this stuff? That clipboard was not in her hand a second ago, he’ll swear on that.

“What is this.”

“New shipment.”

“Ah.”  **Scribble-scribble. ** “You tell them if they break something, they’ll be cleaning the fish tanks, is that clear?”

There’s a flicker of something across Marquis’ face, but it’s gone before Antoine really registers it was there at all.

“Yessir. You boys good? You don’t need anything?”

“No, thanks.” When the boss doesn’t answer, Antoine figures he’ll speak for him, too. “We’re good.”

“You change your mind, just lemme know.”

…

She’s got a body count. She has to. Nobody in this city is nice.

Whatever that body count might be, she doesn’t add them to it when she leaves. Penguin grins around his expensive cigar and leans back in his chair. The Knight seems to check back in, fingers twitching against his leg when he says, “You have the safehouses ready?”

“Mm-hm.” A ring of smoke floats towards the ceiling. “I’m hurt that you asked.”

That sounds bad.

“Gotta check. I’ll pay you your other half once I’ve seen them.”

The boss and Penguin stare at each other for a minute before Penguin laughs, a nasty, warbly sound, and levers himself upright.

“Come on. You haven’t seen my nice exhibits, have you? They’re all one-of-a-kind.”

“We’re not staying—”

“I insist.”

Antoine wills the boss to flip the guy off and just go, which means he can follow and maybe not come back in here ever again, but he’s not so lucky. And so off they go, back through the marine room and into an elevator.

“It’s down a little,” he says cheerfully. “Hope you boys don’t mind...basements.”

Great. He’s got a murder-basement.

The boss hums and Penguin chortles.

“You appreciate Joker’s hyenas?”

What.

“I did.”

“Thought you might-here we are!” They step into a dark hallway. It’s narrow, single-file only, and he and the Knight have to duck to avoid scraping against the ceiling. Penguin, the fucker, fits just fine. “This way…even Jon got a laugh out of this.”

Jon? Who’s-wait. S’that the Scarecrow? Scarecrow had fun down here? NO.

He looks longingly at the elevator as it abandons them to return to the upper levels. It’s damp down here, and cold, and Antoine is starting to worry that they’re going to join Penguin’s museum. It’s a valid concern.

“You’ll like this, boys, believe you me.” Great. “Wakey-wakey, Grundy, my lad! Rise and shine!”

What.

They’re on a bit of a ledge, as it turns out. It’s surrounded by an old, rusted fence.

“I think Grundy might be an escapee of that Wonder City,” Penguin says, waddling over and smacking his palm against the fence. “But I don’t actually know. I found ‘im down here, was thinking of moving ‘im a little closer to the Lounge.”

The fence keeps them from tumbling into a pit. Antoine thinks, at first, that nothing’s down there. Maybe just...a fossil. Or something. But  **then** the ground shakes, and chains rattle, and  **something** snarls,  **“Solomon Grundy...born on a Monday…”**

What the shit.

“Sir?”

“Penguin, if this is--”

**“Christened on a Tuesday…”**

“Now, now, boys, don’t fuss. He can’t get up here, try as he might.”

A light comes on and  **what the actual fuck is that.**

It’s gray. Vaguely humanoid. Huge, big enough to toss Trent around like a rag doll. And it looks angry; the lips are drawn back and the eyes are narrowed. It’s chained to the wall, but it can walk around.

And, as he finds out a second later, attempt to climb.

**“Married on Wednesday…”**

“The hell are you doing, Cobblepot--”

**“NOOOO!”**

The chains tighten and the giant topples back, skull striking the floor with a resounding  **CRACK!** Penguin just laughs.

“You can’t kill him, you know that? We tried. Turns out that if you give him a good shock, up he gets like nothin’ happened. Thought you’d appreciate that.”

The Knight’s silent while the thing gets back up. Antoine wonders, a little, if he’s going to throw Penguin down there, but he just turns to call the elevator with a short, “We’re leaving.”

Good.

“Now, don’t forget to pop by the gift shop, boys!” Penguin calls after them. “Get yourselves a nice souvenir.”

No, thanks.

Somebody’s waiting with an envelope when they get back up there, but other than that, the place looks empty. All the same, Antoine doesn’t breathe again until they’re outside.

Which is about the same time Harley Quinn blows by them in an ice cream truck.

_ Why _ , man. Just why.

THE END


	33. Help! I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, you’re always conveniently too far from a station to tilt the airships and see (read: fuck with) the militia at the same time. However, they ARE there when you’re moving crates. I’m sure they notice.

One minute, Antoine’s quietly pretending to ignore the Knight’s absolute furious ranting about Scarecrow, Batman, and the Goddamn Riddler. (Riddler’s been...chatty. Antoine sort of hopes somebody kills him. Can’t Two-Face take some time out his day?)

The next minute, the airship’s tilted sideways and both he and the boss end up slamming into Trent, who flails desperately before hitting the ground.

**“What the hell--”**

“What’s happening?”

“Get  **off** me, you damn leeches--sorry, boss.”

Everyone in the room is on the ground. Somebody appears to have whacked their head against some...science-thingamabob...but other than that, nobody’s hurt. They struggle up, and Antoine’s just risked letting go of the table when the ship tilts the other way. He grabs for something,  **anything** to stay upright, and unfortunately, that something is the Knight, who isn’t steady enough to keep them from hitting the ground again.

Ow. There’s gonna be some bruises after this--no. No, no. No no no no no--

The massive shadow appears to be falling in slow motion, but it really isn’t. By the time Antoine registers that  **that’s Trent** , Trent is.

Upon them.

Mercifully, the second fall put them mostly far enough away to avoid being crushed to death. Mostly. Trent still lands on at least one foot and oh Jesus, please, please say he’ll walk again. This was supposed to be a safe job. No fatalities.

Trent rolls away. This time, everybody stays down. Smart move, it turns out; the ship tilts again, and they all just...sort of...slide. Antoine’s elbows smacks into a crate, but it could be worse. Oh, man, it could be so much worse.

When the ship doesn’t tilt for three minutes, the Knight staggers to his feet, muttering darkly about  **bat-bullshit** and  **choke him with his own damn cape** . The ship stays steady, and he doesn’t fall again, which means it’s safe to get up. Right? Right.

Wrong. Antoine’s not even fully off the ground when the ship goes sideways and he finds himself under some sort of storage tank with a body in it. You know what, fine. Fine. He’ll just stay here.

…

Yeah, there’s some bruising. This hurts.

“Sir?”

“Batman’s here.” Of course Batman’s here. And here he was, hoping it was Robin. “Everybody regroup, check for injuries, and get in the carrier. We need that ready in case Scarecrow needs an extraction.”

Oh, yeahh. Scarecrow’s here. Did he fall? Surely he biffed it like the rest of them. Good. If Antoine has to hear one more, ‘fear what will happen to you if you fail me’, he’s going to start humming  _ If I Only Had a Brain _ . He’ll probably regret it immediately, but it would make him feel better.

There’s no more tilting, but they have to carry poor Jackson out-man, that’s a big lump-and more than one person is clinging to stationary objects on the way.

He knows it’s not solid ground on a technical level, but he’s glad to be back in the carrier. It doesn’t tilt out of nowhere. It’s  **reliable** . And Batman’s not on it.

Oww. His elbow really, really hurts.

THE END


	34. Before You Put My Body in the Cold Ground (Take Some Time to Warm It With Your Hands)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Roots and Leaves’ related. Title from Brand New’s ‘Sowing Season'.

Bruce does not allow himself to speculate on the nature of the Light. Gordon turns it on for anything from ‘take this piece of evidence’ to ‘we have a new serial killer’ to ‘there’s been an Arkham breakout. Again’.

It isn’t, at least, an automatic warning sign of mayhem.

Gordon, as per usual, is standing near it, soaking up the warmth, when Bruce lands silently on the rooftop behind him. Contrary to popular opinion, he doesn’t come in from the back to be dramatic. He comes in from the back to avoid taking blinding, agonizing light to the eyes.

“Commissioner.”

Gordon jumps and swears.

“ **Every** time…Dove Marquis wants to see you. Says she’s got temporary custody of one of your-and I’m quoting, here-‘fifty thousand children’, and would like you to come and get him.”

Well. This is unexpected.

Dick and Tim are accounted for on the way, Dick covering the night shift for a friend and Tim…interviewing…some of Harley Quinn’s on-again-off-again henchmen. Which leaves Jason.

Jim had not implied it was anything imminently fatal. And Jason, the last anybody knew, hadn’t actively picked a fight with anybody overly dangerous. It’s likely that he’s got some sort of mild, but unpleasant, injury that’s preventing him from getting home. 

That sounds weak to Bruce’s own ears. With Marquis calling Gordon about this, it’s because it’s serious or because Jason asked, and if it’s the latter…

Marquis is on her balcony with a cigarette when he arrives. There’s no sign of Jason, but surely that’s not a bad thing. Surely. It’s pouring rain, it’s late…

She looks rattled, and she keeps twisting around to glance through her doors. The feeling of unease grows, and he scans the building. The only figure in the apartment is curled up on the couch, asleep. He deems it safe to land on the balcony railing.

“Jesus-!” Her cigarette lands in a puddle with a  _ hiss! _ “Good God, that’s creepy…are you socially awkward, or just an asshole?”

“Why did you tell Gordon to contact me.”

Marquis rolls her eyes.

“Asshole it is...because he asked for you. So you have to take him.” As though he wouldn’t. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t wanna know. I found him wandering around a few blocks away. He was throwing up dirt a-and fucking  **worms** , and I spent a good forty minutes pulling shards of wood out of his hands.”

Sounds like someone thought it would be a good idea to bury him alive. Bruce will disabuse them of that notion as soon as he gets Jason home and under Alfred’s care.

“Hn.”

They go in. Jason’s scrunched up on the couch with an electric blanket over him, face smushed into a pillow. His hands are wrapped from fingertip to wrist, and he’s shivering, just a little. Bruce is more concerned about the fact that he’s not waking. He’s a light sleeper, always has been, and for him to be uncaring,  **unknowing** , that he’s not alone…

**What happened to you tonight?**

He whimpers and scrunches up under the blanket, hands jerking, and Marquis says softly, “Want me to try and wake him up, or do you want to risk it?”

Neither, preferably.

The whimpers stop and he goes still, sniffling softly. Bruce sighs, calls for the car-it’ll be here by the time he gets downstairs-and pulls Jason into a fireman’s carry.

“Thank you,” he manages to say. “For. For watching him.”

“Take it up with Harley,” she says shortly, fishing out her cigarettes and heading for her porch. “Tell him I hope he feels better soon, huh?”

Jason stirs, a little, when he settles him into the Batmobile, but when Bruce tries to talk to him, his face scrunches up and he closes his eyes again. He’s tempted, he really is, to go after Harley now; Jason’s clearly all right, not even a hint of a low-grade fever, but…

But. He could have inhaled something, he could have been drugged. Bruce needs to take him home and have Alfred look at him. Harley can wait.

And this way, he’ll be more likely to keep his temper when he tracks her down.

He tousles Jason’s hair, covers him with the cape-he’s shivering now that he’s away from the electric blanket-and makes sure he’s secure before hopping into the driver’s seat and calling Alfred.

“I need you to prep the med bay,” he says. Alfred does that thing where he doesn’t really sigh, but he may as well.

“What happened this time, Master Bruce.”

It isn’t always his fault. Arguing will get him nowhere, but it really isn’t always his fault.

“I’ve got Jason,” he says, narrowly avoiding a fire hydrant that really is located too close to the curb. “He’s. It appears that somebody attempted a live burial.”

Alfred is silent.

“I will be ready and waiting for you, Master Bruce,” he says at last. “Drive safely.”

He does. Mostly. He takes care, anyway, not to come screaming into the cave in a cloud of dust and burnt rubber. Jason’s still unconscious in the back, but he wakes, a little, when he’s picked up.

“B…?”

“Hn.”

“You came.” The surprise in his voice hurts. “You really came for me.”

“Yes.” He sets him on a gurney. The clothes aren’t his, and they don’t fit him well. There’s small cuts on his face and neck, and his hands are all but mummified. “Jay—”

“My fault, I should’a—”

What?

“Jason—”

“She said it was safe,” he whispers. “She said. She  _ said _ .”

And then Alfred is there, shooing Bruce out of the way and humming, “Let’s see what’s happened, Master Jason…”

Jason blinks at them for a minute before his eyes roll back. Bruce has no idea what happened. He doubts Jason would have trusted Harley Quinn. Pitied, almost certainly, but trusted? No. Somebody else was involved, somebody he doesn’t know about.

Bruce doesn’t  **like** not knowing about things.

There’s a bump on the side of the boy’s head, and when Alfred unwraps his hands...they’re not a pretty sight. There’s a few nails missing and the remaining ones are badly broken. They’re riddled with cuts and punctures and  **oh** . Coffin. There must have been a coffin, or at least a large wooden crate.

How did this happen?

“--ce. Master Bruce.”

“Sorry, Alfred.”

“Move aside, please...thank you. It’s a miracle his fingers are still intact.”

Bruce often thinks it’s a miracle Jason’s alive at all, after...after everything. And now, under the stark light of the medical bay, that idea comes back in force. He can’t place most of these scars, even though he knows what caused them. That one’s from a crowbar; he’s got a few of those himself. They’re a cheap, easy weapon. Or that one, there, that’s from a knife. There’s more than a few gunshot wounds, far more than he ever had from his time as Robin, and…

“There we are, Master Jason,” Alfred says, forcefully cheery, even though Jason’s not awake to care anyway. “I’m sure your father will take you upstairs.”

Some father he is. This is his fault, none of this should have happened.

He wants Harley Quinn. And once Jason’s settled in bed, he’s going to find her.

* * *

Bruce decides, when he’s back in the car (he isn’t hiding from Alfred’s disapproval, he’s just…), that he’ll start his hunt for Harley after getting what he can out of Marquis. He’s hoping she’ll be more cooperative about this than she’s been about past cases, given the circumstances. Besides, Penguin’s not involved (theoretically), so she doesn’t have any reason to withhold information, not  **really** .

She’s still outside, but no longer smoking, when he lands on the balcony.

“Why are you here.”

“What happened.”

“Get lost.”

“I need to find Harley, but I need to know what happened.”

For a minute, he thinks she’ll just go inside. But she sighs, mutters something about  _ too many goddamn vigilantes _ and  _ never thought I’d miss the weirdo with mommy issues _ , and gets up off the bench.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I found him wandering around a few blocks away, and he said Harley did it, and he was really, really upset about some woman named Sheila, but I don’t know who that is and at this point, I don’t care.”

Sheila, Sheila...Bruce knows of  **a ** Sheila, but...no, that’s too much of a coincidence...there’s no such thing as coincidence...and Jay’s always had near-comically bad luck. Rather like the Baudelaire Orphans.

“Where  **exactly** did you find him.”

“Ah...over in Sunshine Plaza.”

Bruce has always wondered who, exactly, named that plaza. And why.

“Thank you.”

“Now are you gonna go?”

He can take a hint. And also there’s nothing else he needs here.

He brings up his file on Sheila Haywood on the glide over. She’s still living exactly where she was the last time she was on his radar, when he’d been desperate. He’d thought that maybe...either Jason had found out, somehow, and gone after her, or that her connections to the Joker would…

He’d been desperate.

Sheila’s apartment isn’t far from here, and Bruce’s unease only grows. The odds of there being another Sheila are...low...and Jason…

He lets himself in through the bedroom window. There’s a body lying in the front hall, but no other signs of life.

The body is Sheila Haywood. Bruce sighs-he doesn’t know why he expected otherwise, really-and sets up a virtual crime scene.

Sheila died from a bullet to the head, maybe...five hours ago, give or take. The shooter was waiting for her; she’s still wearing her raincoat, and her purse is sitting on the ground where it fell when she died.

There’s a gun near her hand. It hasn’t been fired-it’s not even loaded-but hers are the only prints on it.

Hm.

There was a struggle, at some point. The end table by the couch is tipped over and there’s blood on the carpet. The blood is both Jason’s and an unknown-likely a hired hench-and there’s a hint of Quinn’s perfume still lingering in the air.

So. Harley-or her goons-probably shot Sheila when she pulled the gun. That doesn’t entirely explain her involvement, but Bruce wonders if Harley wasn’t trying to get her to come back. She didn’t take Joker’s death well, and he knows she’s been grasping for any last connection to him. Sometimes he feels sorry for her.

But not today. Today, her insanity killed a woman and could have cost Jason his life, and Bruce is  **not** happy about it.

He calls Gordon about Sheila before following the perfume outside. There’s not enough to track over a long distance, but it does lead him to the parking garage...and a set of tire tracks.

The first place the tracks go is a park, maybe two blocks away. Reasonable; Jason was either unconscious or restrained, but keeping him in a small car would have been risky. The car was parked, and…

Oh.

Oh, dear God.

He doesn’t need to track anything to see the tear in the earth, the thick wooden shards and the torn roots. The scanner says the disruption goes down six feet, to a cheap coffin.

_ Oh, Jay-lad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. _

His ear crackles and Alfred’s voice hits him, colder than Freeze’s gun.

“Master Bruce.” Oh no. “What do you think you are doing.”

“I need to find Quinn.”

“You need to be with your son, who has asked for you twice tonight.” The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach is a response to the grave in front of him, and that’s all. “Now.”

Alfred uses-really uses-the No Argument tone very rarely. That’s probably why it’s so effective.

That said, Harley’s likely gone to ground for the time being. Big to-dos aren’t her style, not anymore. Besides, he can put feelers out from home. And maybe Tim will find something.

* * *

Jason’s asleep when Bruce nudges his door open, face buried in the pillow. Looking at him now, Bruce can almost convince himself that none of the last few years has happened, that he’s just...home from college for the weekend. But then he rolls over, bringing the brand into the low light, and the illusion’s shattered.

“Has he woken up at all?”

“Once,” Alfred says, apparently happier now that Bruce is here. “He wasn’t terribly happy with the room being so dark, hence the pineapple lamp.” Bruce can only imagine. “He wondered where you were, but then decided to go back to sleep.”

“I’ll watch him, Alfred.”

He’s sure he’s imagining the  _ it’s about bloody time _ aura Alfred is radiating. It’s been a long night, that’s all.

“Very good, sir. Call me if you need me.”

Jason doesn’t stir when Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed. Good. It’s...it’s better that he get some sleep.

(Bruce doesn’t want a fight tonight.)

_ How did this happen, Jay? What am I missing? _

He’ll find out. He’ll find Harley, he’ll make this...well, there’s no making this right, but...he’ll find her.

God, he’s tired of clowns trying to take his son.

THE END


	35. Clocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have trouble with analog clocks to this day. I have no idea if it’s a Scary thing or an autism thing, but there it is. (With Jason, my personal headcanon is that’s just a weird thing for him. He can’t make oatmeal, either, no matter how hard he tries. :p)

Jason, after Bruce took him in, figured out that analog clocks were created by the devil and that they absolutely refused to be read by little boys. He’d had his share of trouble with ‘em before, when he was a  **kid** , but he hadn’t really...he’d thought maybe...maybe he’d get better. But nope, they were still hard and it took a bit of squinting to figure out the time.

He can read them, but it takes more effort than he’d like and when he’d finally mentioned it, shamefacedly, to Alfred, a digital clock had appeared in his room and that was the end of it.

And then had come the Joker, and for the longest time there’d been no clock of any kind, and honestly, Jason had taken enough knocks to the head that it wouldn’t have mattered.

It had been maybe three months in when a digital clock appeared. Well. Of a sort. It had red numbers and at first he’d thought it was some sort of psychological thing. ‘Look at the time I’ve had you here’ or...or something.

But then the numbers started going backwards, and he’d spotted the wires, and the dynamite they were attached to.

At first, for a minute or two, he hadn’t cared. He remembers thinking he was just grateful to be done, to be out of his misery. But then it had been fifteen minutes left, and he’d been hanging from the ceiling, ankle too damaged to run even if he’d wanted to.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes is plenty of time to have regrets, to be scared. He’d screamed for help, knowing it wouldn’t do any good but  **still** hoping somebody,  **anybody** , would come and get him.

He’d stopped screaming when there were two minutes left.

Closed his eyes at ten seconds, tried to breathe.

Apologized to Bruce at two.

Got a lungful of Joker gas at zero and rebroke his ankle thrashing in the chains. Rebroke a rib, too.

After that, he’d happily gone clock-free in his room. Nothing like waking up at night to see red numbers! Not.

And then had come Sheila, and everything after that, and...and waking up in the dark…

He’d broken down, eventually, and bought a night light at the dollar store, but that had been  **too** bright. So he’d gotten a damn clock and turned it to the wall. All the light without the numbers.

But sometimes...sometimes he’d wake up, and the red light threw laughing shadows above his head.

He didn’t go back to sleep on those nights.

THE END


	36. Nobody's Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Deathday, Jason!

**Don’t get me started on that fucking case. ‘A good soldier’? Seriously? Gee, and he wonders why I maintain that he abandoned me…could it be that, instead of literally ANYTHING else, THAT’S what he put? Wow.-J.**

* * *

**Do not stand on my grave and cry…**

Not many people can say they’ve stood on their own grave.

This being Gotham, Jason’s sure there’s somebody else who can make the claim, but it’s an exclusive club. He doesn’t want membership, either-it’s…unsettling, standing here.

The stone matches Bruce’s parents; shiny black, with engraved letters. He’s tempted, a little, to kick it over. S’gotta be bad luck, right? He’s not there (and really, Bruce, this being fucking Gotham, maybe find a body before you go putting up grave markers).

He won’t. He won’t, because Alfred will be exasperated with him and Bruce will just set it back up anyway. But it’s tempting all the same, to get a running start and slide into it. Or maybe just bludgeon it. Or shoot it…no, no, he might get hit with the ricochet. Though then they’d have somethin’ to put under it. S’kinda useless right now.

He wants to touch it, a little, but at the same time he doesn’t because what if touching it reminds the universe that  **oh, yeah, gravestones mark a corpse and this one’s for you!**

Why’s it shiny. Yeah, it matches the Waynes’, but…he’s not one. Wasn’t then, sure as hell isn’t one now.

He needs to touch it. He needs to touch it, as some sort of middle finger to its existence.

Heh. His life is built on flipping off someone or something. When he dies properly, he kinda wants it to be giving the finger to the thing responsible. Unless it’s old age, ‘cuz that’s not really possible, but he doubts that’d be it anyway.

Not that he wants to die, mind. Not anymore. S’this stupid stone, makin’ him all morbid.

Maybe he’ll feel better if he smudges it.

He takes a few deep breaths, pulls a glove off, and rubs a finger over the death date. It doesn’t smudge and he yanks his hand back, half-expecting a skeleton (Robin, maybe, the spirit of Robin) to burst out of the ground and yank him under the dirt. Obviously, that doesn’t happen, and the stone winks up at him.

He scoffs at it and lights a cigarette. Then, just to prove that he’s not freaked out by it, not even a little, he settles down on the grass and stares at it. Wonders whose idea this thing was in the first place. Bruce, probably, with his damned  **guilt** (should’ve channeled it, old man, looked a little harder). Yeah, it had to have been Bruce. He can feel the  **my fault** practically seeping from the engraved  **Jason Peter Todd** .

“Fuck you, Bruce,” he says conversationally to the stone, smoke catching in his throat and making his voice waver.

The stone doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. Jason rolls his eyes at it anyway and eases himself onto his back, head a few inches away from it, and looks up at the sky. It’s not too awful gray today. Well. For Gotham. It’s not actively raining, and sometimes the clouds thin enough to let a patch of blue peek through.

He stretches, spine cracking a little, and closes his eyes. S’there a coffin down there? Or is it just the stone? Bruce is exactly the type to bury a wax dummy or a weighted coffin or somethin’, but Alfred might have been able to talk him out of it.

The grass is cool under his ungloved hand and he rubs his palm across the manicured blades. What was the service like? Was there one? Probably; there had to be an explanation for his disappearance. Kidnapping or something, maybe. Or maybe there wasn’t anything, after all. Not like it’s any great secret that he was always Bruce Wayne’s charity case. Maybe they let people assume he ran off or something.

The idea’s a little painful, and that makes him angry. It shouldn’t fucking matter. It  **doesn’t** fucking matter. This isn’t his. This was never his, this was always for weak, naive Robin. Robin  **did** die, choking on his own blood and screaming for Bruce in Arkham’s basement. Jason Todd didn’t.

The weight the stone put on him, the feeling of truly being six feet under, dissipates and he stands up.

“Tell Bruce I said hi,” he tells it, reaching out to pat the top of it before putting his glove back on. “Since we both know he visits every week to reaffirm that it’s his fault.”

The stone remains silent. He grins at it anyway and walks away, breeze tousling his hair.

**I am not there--I did not die.**

THE END


	37. Lay Your Head Down, Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is old. This is literally like three years old. I forgot it existed. :p Title from a lyric in A Perfect Circle's 'Pet'.

Jason probably shouldn’t have come into the abandoned apartment complex, but he’s on a tight schedule and if he doesn’t find his informant, things could get ugly. Little fucker’s probably skipped town or somehow screwed him over, if his excuse isn’t perfect…

Well. They’ll worry about that when they get there. Or, rather, his informant will. Jason’s not worried. Much.

“…f’you OD’d on me, I swear to God I will resurrect you and kill you painfully…”

S’dark in here, n’cold, and some combination of Common Sense and Trained by Paranoid Asshole is screaming at him to  **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** . He ignores them both. If he turned tail at every dark, spooky building, nothing would ever get done.

It is creepy, though-a fire ripped through here a few years ago, gutted the place. Parts of it are crumbling and every so often he’ll stumble upon a burned piece of somebody’s life. A doll’s head, melted into a Burton-esque thing. A stainless steel kettle. A television, warped and sooty but still reflecting the dark room.

Something white flashes across the screen, just for a second, and Jason whirls around. Nothing. He doesn’t believe in ghosts-if anywhere had ‘em, it’d be Arkham, and he hadn’t seen any during his time there-but he does believe in desperate druggies, serial killers, and assassins.

Though it could have been a homeless person, or some thrill-seekin’ kid. He hopes it’s not the latter, then he’ll have to take them home (or at least somewhere safer) and he doesn’t have time. He’ll do it, but still.

He steps out into the hall. Dark. Empty. Quiet, save for the creaks of the settling building.

He draws one of his guns. Better to be on the safe side.

Most of the rooms are empty, but one, near the busted elevator, contains his informant. Lazy bastard’s sitting in a chair by the window. Probably high as a kite, God  **dammit** …

Jason holsters his gun and stalks over there, intending to give him an earful. He puts his hand on the guy’s shoulder and yanks. If the little shit falls outta the chair, well, that’ll teach him to wander off when he  **knows** they’ve got a damn meeting scheduled.

Too late, he spots the restraints. The chair topples back, informant with it.

He’s dead, that’s clear, and looking at the expression of horror tells Jason everything he needs to know about how.

Shit. He didn’t come prepared for this.

“Oh, dear.”

He turns, stepping over the corpse, and finds the explanation for the flash of white. Kitty Richardson grins at him from the doorway, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of what was once a straitjacket.

“You’re not the Bat.”

“Damn right,” he spits, hoping Batman won’t have tracked them here. Not tonight, or at least not at this exact second.

Dark goggles seem to laugh at him and she steps back, a glowing spot of white in the black hallway.

“Pity. You’ll do, though, I suppose.”

What--

He senses someone behind him and half-turns in time for a syringe to slip between his helmet and his armor, liquid fire clawing its way into his veins. 

** _“Surprise!” _ ** He fumbles for his gun as Scarecrow steps back, spidery limbs melting into the shadows. A needle-clad finger lays across the stitched mouth.  ** _“Hush, hush, little bird.”_ **

“Don’t--”

The floor pitches beneath him and he stumbles to his knees. Richardson’s boots cross the floor and something hard connects with his helmet, knocking him onto his back. The room drips like a Dali clock and beside him, his informant’s corpse jerks, roachlike, against charred floorboards.

**S’just drugs s’not real fight it Jay THIS ISN’T REAL**

“Think he took you a bit literally.” Richardson says. “Not even a peep out of him.”

“Give it a minute, Kitty. You’re always so impatient.”

Just for that, Jason’s not making a single sound.

_ “I always loved that determination, Todders.” _ No. No, it’s not real, it’s NOT. REAL.  _ “Remember how sure you were that Batman would come for you?” _

He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that the floor beneath him isn’t Arkham’s freezing tile, wishes his gloves were off so’s he could give himself a splinter. From somewhere behind his head, the Joker cackles and Jason feels him lie down on top of him, yellow teeth inches from his ear. Helmet or no helmet, he can feel hot breath against his skin and maybe Joker’s here too, maybe Crane called him--

_ “I’m always here,” _ the clown hisses.  _ “Whenever you need me, little Jay-bird. And hell, even when…you…DON’T.” _

There’s the rattle of the medical cart, the one with the loose wheel and the bloodstained sides, and he feels the thing bump gently against his boots.

**Not real. Not real. Just…just a hallucination, just please stop I don’t want--**

_ “Isn’t it good to be home?” _

He pinches his lips shut in an effort to not to scream, to beg for Bruce or Dick or  **anyone** to help him, can’t they hear, he’s just on the other side of the wall, down a few dozen steps, why can’t they hear him-

His chest hurts when he tries to take a breath. Bruce won’t come, nobody’s gonna come and he can’t  **breathe** , just please…

_ “Naughty boy, running away from your Uncle Joker like that! I’ve been so worried…” _

Purple fingers pull his head against the Joker’s own and he whimpers, tries to twist away and can’t.

“Stop…”

_ “Shh, shh. I’m not going to hurt you, Jason. I’m going to help you, to TEACH you!” _

“Please…”

The cart pulls away from his boots, rattling away towards the wall. The floor begins to undulate beneath him, knocking his head gently against the clown’s. The Joker cackles again, high-pitched and painful in his ear, and rolls away at last.

_ “Call me if you need me!” _

The floor. The floor’s not cold any more, and it’s rough under his body. His fingers are touching something and he forces his head to turn stiffly towards it.

His informant. The corpse is still lying next to him, stiff with rigor mortis and staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Jason’s fingers are touching the side of the man’s neck.

He’s trembling and slick with sweat and he’s not sure he can get up. Crane and Richardson are nowhere to be seen.

Okay. Okay, he can get up. He’s gonna get up, if only out of spite.

Well. He, uh…he’s half-up. He’s sitting up, anyway, back against the wall. S’easier to breathe. He wants desperately to take his helmet off, but that’s not an option right now. Thing has filters, this is psychological, he’ll be fine.

A flash of movement, noticeable only because he’s used to looking for it, appears in the corner of his eye. Time to go. Last thing he wants or needs is fucking Batman pestering him.

He hauls himself up, refusing to be sick or to collapse back to the floor, and lets himself out through the window. He’s dizzy when he gets down, and his joints feel like they’re stuffed with broken glass, but there’s no sign of anyone and he makes it to his bike without incident.

Later, when he’s curled on his couch with a glass of ginger ale (a who’d’a-thunk-it remedy for Crane’s toxin), it’s an effort to convince himself that the giggling in the bathroom is all in his head.

THE END


	38. Smile

He’s been waiting ever so patiently for wee Toddy to wake up, but it’s been four hours and he’s soooooo bored. What’s a man gotta do for some entertainment down here, he’d like to know?

He gives him an experimental little poke, right where he knows there’s a puncture wound, but nada. The boy remains still and silent on the operating table, wheezing through cracked lips. He’s no fun like this. This is almost as bad as the time Harley hit him too hard and he tried to die then and there, five months in. Humph. Really, Bats, don’t you prepare your little birdies for anything?

A thought strikes him and he leans over, pinches Jason’s lips and tries to twist them up into a smile. He isn’t good at smiling, not without help. The only  **real** one had to be induced with a hit of his specially patented Laughing Gas, and that wore off. The current result is...poor...and he lets go, gives the kid a light smack on the cheek for good measure. The art squishes. Whoops, forgot all about that, but, well, he can’t be expected to remember everything. Nobody’s perfect.

He kicks his legs against the table’s, sighs, and regrets, for a grand total of three seconds, shooting him. If he’d known it would take this long for him to wake up from surgery, he maybe would have done it when he didn’t have so much time to kill.

…

Or at least not killed the doctor so fast. Oh, well…

He’s just thinking that maybe he’ll see what happens if he gives the boy another hit of Laughing Gas-will it wake him up, or will he giggle himself to death while remaining unconscious?-when Jason’s breathing changes. 

His smile grows wider and he slithers over to crouch just by his head, so his poor, abandoned baby won’t worry that he’s been left alone after such a terrible event. He deserves to wake up and know that somebody out in this big, cruel world loves him enough to sit with him and hold his hand and reassure him that he’ll never be abandoned again.

And also tell him that if he ruins the fun, a little bullet will be the least of his problems.

“Todders…” he croons, strokes his hair and immediately regrets that because  _ yeesh _ , when did this kid have a bath last? Harley has one job… “Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey!”

Jason’s eyes flutter open. He’s such a good boy now. It’s taken some time, and some drugs, and more than one talking-to, but they’ve reached a point that he won’t flinch no matter how much his personal space is invaded. Doesn’t protest, either, just waits. Finally, he’s got the message that children should be seen and not heard.

Progress!

“There you are,” he says, and Jason blinks, face blank. Well, he can forgive a lack of greeting. Just this once, for the anesthesia. That’s hardly his fault, after all. “Have a good sleep?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles. Good. Good!

“That’s what I like to hear!” He leans over and kisses his cheek. “Now, you just rest up, and your old Uncle J will have some fun new games ready for you very soon.”

Silence for a few extra seconds, and he’s just starting to frown when Jason nods, slow and careful. His eyes are very shiny. Oh, he’s not going to cry out of joy, is he?

“Thank you, sir.”

Good.

“That’s what I like to hear, Todders.” He stands up, pats the bandages to make sure they’re in place. “That’s what I like to hear.”

THE END


	39. Out, Damned Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried, I really did. I did. M’sorry, m’sorry, I tried, I just…m’sorry.-J.

Jason looks at the pale red stains on his hands where the blood soaked through his gloves. He should wash it off. He knows that. But it doesn’t matter, does it. It won’t come off.

**What, will these hands ne’er be clean?**

All the same, he turns the water on and lets the weak stream wash over his palms and his fingers, coming off slightly pink. The stains do not fade.

He’d tried. Honest to God, he’d tried, it’s just…

People don’t usually do so well after getting their throat slit. He knows that. Logically, all he did was prolong the inevitable. But emotionally…

She’d died. She’d died with her vocal cords cut and the gash ragged and raw and just one big blood bubble under his hands. She’d died and the guy got away and Jason’s not sure if she was married or had kids or what but her eyes were  **scared** . Even after she died, they were scared.

The pipes gurgle and spit and  **SHIT** that’s  **HOT** \--oh. That’s what happens, apparently, when you turn the ‘hot’ knob and don’t turn the ‘cold’ one.

He turns the other knob and rubs his fingertips together, rough flesh under unyielding red. Lukewarm drops of water splash up onto his wrists. Feels like blood, kinda. But this’ll come off and the blood won’t and she--

She looked like Mom. Not really, not, like, clone, but…her eyes. Her eyes were the same color and she had the same laughter lines there.

And it’s his fault. She’s dead and it’s his fault because he’d tried to talk the guy-druggie, probably didn’t even mean to do this-down rather than jump him, but he was tryin’ to help. That’s all. He was just…

He turns the water off with more force than necessary. It’s not doing anything. He can’t get the stains out.

He’ll never get the stains out.

THE END


	40. Surpriiiiiise...

The dummy looks like Joker.

Well. It’s not a dummy. Scarface is a dummy. This is technically a mannequin, done up to look like Joker. And it’s good; it’s the same size, the same proportions, the same horrid tailored purple suit. But instead of a head, there’s a TV screen there. Sometimes the clown will come on-just  **his ** head, to complete it-and. Talk to him. It’s been here for his admittedly brief periods of consciousness for...he’s not sure how many days. He doesn’t know. All he knows, really, is that he’s going to die down here.

Or maybe that’s just a fool’s hope.

Today, the screen is blank. Jason’s been awake for longer than usual this time, at least half an hour. He’s not restrained, but he’s not stupid. He knows the door’s locked, and if it isn’t, that’s because somebody’s waiting on the other side of it. Or it’s booby-trapped. Or maybe even both. Besides, his ankle’s...it’s not...it’s broken again. Or. It’s half-healed, he can hobble-barely, painfully-but stairs? Probably not.

Everything hurts, but not as bad as it could. Nobody’s been down for...a few sleeps, but there’s a tray of food over there. He’s not hungry enough to risk it. Last one had Joker toxin in the water, and his ribs still ache from that.

He hates that goddamn mannequin. The way it slumps in the chair all comfy, the way it feels like it’s watching him, the way he can never remember what pose it’s in. Like now. He could’ve sworn it had an arm flung over the back of the chair. But he’s tired, hungry, hurting and possibly still reeling from whatever Harley shoved down his throat last time, and he was wrong. The arms are hanging down.

_ Unobservant, stupid little fool...no wonder Batman left you. _

A surge of anger and pain chases the chill from his fingers. This is the mannequin’s fault, making him remember…

To hell with it. To hell with it and Batman and Joker. Joker wants to talk at him so bad, he can come down here himself.

He heaves himself up and struggles towards it. He’ll pay for this, but…

At least someone’ll come down while he’s awake.

He takes a swing at the TV--

\--only for a hand to snatch his wrist.

The sudden upset to his already precarious balance sends him plummeting towards the floor, held half-up by the hand. Joker stands up, pushing the damn TV to the ground and oh God no please no he didn’t mean it--

“Naught, naughty, Todders!” He goes limp. It’s his only defense. “I come down to keep you company, and this is the thanks I get?”

“No, no…”

The expected hit doesn’t come. He’s left half-dangling while Joker twists and bends to turn the TV on. It shows a lab, and an inmate. And Harley. Richardson’s there too, but not Crane. What…

“--vitals are fine,” Richardson’s saying. “He’ll live or he won’t, but Jonathan’s gone ahead with treatment on unhealthier ones than this.”

“Aw, thanks for doin’ me a solid!”

“Mm. Remember, veins, not muscles. Otherwise he might...pop. Again.”

What the hell are they doing?

He risks glancing at Joker, but the clown’s just giggling and dancing a little in place.

On-screen, Richardson leaves and Harley stomps forward, syringe in hand. The inmate looks more than a little apprehensive, but he’s still while Harley injects him. She backflips away and. And the man. He starts screaming, awful, agonized shrieks. He’s jerking, he’s... **rippling** ...he’s growing. Like Bane.

Joker drops him to clap and he can’t quite break his fall. There’s an awful tearing noise-flesh, it’s flesh, the bones are ripping out of the man’s goddamn back-and then silence.

Not all of him is big. His leg is normal-sized still. So’s his head, but his eyes. They’re not. They popped open, gooey white and red leaking down his cheeks.

Joker turns to him and crouches down, gathers him in his arms and cradles him against his chest.

“Now you be a good boy, Jason,” he says between giggles, “or that’ll be you. Maybe you handle it better, maybe you  **won’t** .”

He nods, trying not to shake, and Joker kisses his temple. He shudders. He can’t help it.

“You ungrateful little brat-!”

And that’s all the warning he gets before his head’s slammed into the tiles. When he wakes up again, he’s tied to the chair.

There’s no mannequin this time.

THE END


	41. Welcome to Gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, Gothamites are hardcore, but the transplants are understandably gonna go, ‘WHAT’. Either they adapt or they don’t, and I wanted to see about one that didn’t.

Nicole’s never had a gun to her head before. She’s only lived in Gotham for a year, worked for Oswald Cobblepot for four months. She’s a college kid, she’s never-she never thought--

“We’re gonna walk outta here,” the man’s saying. “Any of you assholes try ta follow, and blam-blam.”

She’d frozen. They’d told everyone to get down and she’d stiffened up, she hadn’t meant to…

“Leave the kid alone,” a voice snaps from behind the bar. “Mister Cobblepot’s already gonna be on your ass, don’t get kidnapping charges thrown in there.”

Dove’s nice. Well. Usually. Nicole’s pretty sure she helped bury a body or two, but she’s nice, keeps the creeps off the servers. Won’t let Nicole anywhere near that back room, where Cobblepot sees...special people. Doctors, clowns, a weird green guy. That sort of thing.

“Shut up, lady.”

“Just sayin’. You go now, you get slapped with robbery and property damage. You take her, it gets ugly.”

The man shifts, turns the gun to Dove instead.

“Shut your fuckng mouth--”

**CRA-ASH!**

“Shit--”

**CRUNCH.**

Nicole feels the man behind her fold like an accordion, hears the crunching of his collarbones under heavy boots. Her first thought is that it’s Gotham’s local cryptid, but the gloved hand thrusting her out of the way goes under a leather jacket, and when she crawls under a table and peeks out, there’s no cape.

She’s heard whispers about this one. He’s new, and more dangerous than Batman’s ever been. The Bat, according to her coworkers, will break your arm and hang you off a gargoyle. The Red Hood will shoot you or worse.

He’s not shooting now. He doesn’t have to; somebody’s rushed him, screaming, only for him to step aside and catch the guy by the back of the neck to slam his head into a table. And then he’s  **moving** , climbing up the man with the machine gun to cut the cord holding the lamp above him. The lamp comes down on the guy’s head, but Hood’s already onto the next one, kicking him in the chest to send him over the little railing and onto the dance floor below.

“Get that son of a bitch!”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Hood cartwheels-and cartwheels look utterly awful on a man his size-out of the way of bullets. Nicole huddles further back under the table until her ass is pressed against the bench. “Or are you just bad at wordplay?”

Scary the cartwheels might have been, but they brought him right up to the guy. Before Nicole can blink, Hood’s flung himself...into the man’s arms...and then they’re both going down. There’s a horrible crunching noise.

Somebody else-last one?-has gotten bold enough to get close. He doesn’t have a gun, not that Nicole can see, but he’s got a big butcher knife.

“Gonna carve my name in your face, bitch,” he spits. Hood goes very, very still.

“S’that so,” he says, no glee in his voice. No banter follows. “Been there, done that.”

What?

**BLAM!**

Silence. That’s what follows the gunshot. Then the knife hits the carpet, and then the man. He doesn’t. He doesn’t have a head any more he doesn’t have a  **head any more HE DOESN’T HAVE A HEAD ANY MORE--**

She pukes. It’s just bile, because she hasn’t eaten much today, but it gets all over her because she’s still huddled under the table.

Hood’s still here. He hasn’t moved other than to lower his gun, but he’s breathing heavy. A few seconds pass before he turns his head towards the bar.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess.”

“Think I’ll take the mess over the alternative,” Dove says dryly. “Thanks, Hood.”

And then he’s gone, back through the ruined skylight. Nicole hiccups, tasting acidic mucus from puke and tears, and tries not to look at the. At. At  **him.**

“Okay, sweetheart, come on outta there…”

Dove’s suddenly crouched down. Doesn’t she see? The blood’s seeping into the carpet and it smells and one wrong step’ll be into bone shards and--

“Come on. We gotta clear out so the cops can get a cleanup crew in here.”

But…

“Come on, honey...let’s at least getcha into clean clothes, okay?”

She crawls out. Now that she can see everything, it’s. It’s bad. The man who had the gun on her is  **broken** , and the guy that went over the railing landed on his head and there’s blood a-and---

“Come on. Bathroom--Charlie, f’the cops get here, I’m just getting the kid cleaned up, okay?”

“You got it.”

The bathroom is clean. It’s white and there’s mild elevator music playing in it. Dove parks her at the sink and turns the water on, yanks a handful of towels out of the dispenser.

“Breathe in...okay...this your first vigilante run-in?”

First vigilante, first hostage situation, first  **death** …

She just nods, stomach churning, and blubbers out, “What the hell?”

“You get used to it.”

“He killed him.” And she’s crying again and man, this is inappropriate but her family’s five hundred miles away and-- “I-I know he was gonna kill me but he just shot him like it was nothing and now his brains are in the carpet--”

“Sh-sh-sh.” A wet towel dabs at her face. “I know. Hood...Hood’s methods are a little rough. But he won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“We work for Penguin!” she manages to spit out. “He’s a crime lord! And I’m just trying to get through college but what if he doesn’t know that or--”

Dove starts laughing. It’s not hysterical, or mean, it’s just a little incredulous.

“He won’t hurt you, honey. Trust me. I’m gonna get you some clean clothes out of the locker, okay? If you wanna get out of those and...pat down or whatever, you go ahead.”

She leaves. Nicole gulps, tastes more yellow, and sticks her head under the faucet to rinse her mouth out. She doesn’t wanna go back out there to. To  **see** anything, or have to talk to the police. She wants to go home, back to Ohio where they don’t have masked weirdoes and where you don’t have to get used to somebody pulling a gun on you or to seeing dead bodies or anything like that.

One more year of college. Just one more year.

God, that can’t come soon enough.

THE END


	42. Kindred Spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of dog fighting. Nothing graphic, because Jason killed everybody.  
The Dog (Lemon, even if not named here) is modelled after one of my own dogs (nothing bad has ever happened to Edgar, don’t worry) in ‘breed’.   
CAVEAT EMPTOR: I am not a vet, nor have any animals I owned ever had severe injuries; Jason’s Beginner Dog Care is what I’ve done upon obtaining a stray dog/dealing with doggy illnesses/caring for a dog that had knee surgery. Seek a professional for your own situation! <3

The two types of cases Jason hates the most are ones with kids and animals. He feels for the adult victims, but, well, that guy that tried to steal fear toxin for his own gains and got turned into one of Richardson’s lobotomized zombies? That’s on him. He made poor choices. Kids, though, they haven’t done anything, and animals never will, and…

Those are the ones that keep him up at night, that’s all.

This one isn’t even one of the worst. It’s still awful, but it was a small-time dog fighting ring rather than one of the big ones. Most of the animals can probably be rehabilitated. The owners...well…

So he got a little overzealous with a machete he found outside. He doubts people will care. He was going to be nicer, but he had to rescue a bait dog and there wasn’t time to do his usual sass-and-dance routine. Those fuckers were gonna--

It doesn’t matter what they were  **gonna** do. They  **didn’t** , and that’s what matters.

The dog in question is curled, whimpering, in a corner. It-she, that was a mama dog at some point-has a messed up leg. She’s a big girl, dirty and jowly, looks like she’s got some pit in her. Jesus…

He should go. The cops will be here soon and they’re not friends. But...it’s just…

It’s dumb. He knows it’s dumb. But damn if he doesn’t feel some sorta kindred connection with the dog in the corner. And they might not even try to take her, with her leg like that, and her face is torn in places, and…

He drops the machete, opens up his helmet, and crouches down a few feet away. He’s got time. 

“Hey, baby girl,” he says gently, pitching his voice to be heard over the hellish barking. “Hey-hey, sweetheart…”

He’s not sure what to do. It won’t be her fault if she bites him, but that’s still not appealing. Okay...he knows how to make a cloth muzzle, that won’t hurt her and maybe…

He rips a strip of cloth from one of the bastard’s shirts-least he can do is make himself useful in death-and makes his way over, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna help, okay? But I gotta make sure you don’t bite me, huh? There’s a good girl, just be still…”

She licks his fingers. He doesn’t start crying, but it’s a near thing.

He hates animal cases…

“There we go, sweetheart. There we go. I’m gonna pick ya up, okay, baby? We’re gonna go someplace they’re gonna fix ya up, it’s okay, you’re a good girl…”

She’s a big girl, but Jason’s picked up bigger. Okay. No skylight. At least these sorry bastards set up shop in town, rather than on the outskirts.

“Okay, baby,” he says. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

He intends to deposit her safely at the animal clinic a few blocks from his apartment, say good-bye, and tell himself she got adopted by a nice home with two point five kids or whatever. What happens is that he gives them his current number, says he’ll take her until she’s better, and spends the next hour finding an all-night store with pet supplies.

In hindsight, he should have gone home and changed. But that ship has sailed, which is why he’s standing in the pet aisle at Goth-Mart, in full Red Hood gear, pushing a tiny cart, at three in the damn morning.

Um. What now.

Okay. Okay, okay. Dogs gotta eat, right? Right--aw, shit, there’s varieties? Dry, wet, refrigerated...you gotta be kidding.

Google says a bland cooked food might be his better bet. He throws a bag of kibble into the cart anyway, figures he’ll get some chicken before he leaves, and keeps going. Okay, okay, leash, leash is good, and a collar-his apartment might be in a crappy part of town, but it is clean and he’s not about to lock her in the bathroom forever-uh...toys! Toys. Dogs like bones, probably, or maybe a squeaky toy? No balls, she can’t run. Erm...that is a Batman plush toy. It even looks like him, judgemental chin and all.

A grinchy grin spreads over his face. Squeaky Batman goes into the cart.

He’s gazing at what looks like an endless amount of treats when there’s a shadow at his elbow and a wary voice asks, “Finding everything okay?”

No. No, he is not. And he’s not Bruce, he  **is** asking for help.

“I ended up with a dog,” he says, turning slowly and carefully. “She’s had a pretty rough start in life, and she’s hurt, so…”

“Any allergies?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hmm.” Apparently they’re not worried he’s going to body-slam them into the grimy tiles, because they come closer. “Well, my guys love these things.” Liver treats? Blech. “They stink, but hey.”

You know what, fine.

“I’ll try ‘em. Hey, do you guys have dog beds? She won’t be able to get up on mine, but I don’t want her to be stuck on the carpet, and--”

“On the back wall.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing! If you need anything else, just ask.”

* * *

He’s still not sure why he went with the seventy-five dollar bed with sides and the fancy stuffing. Whatever. He did, and he had to do some rearrangement of his bedroom furniture, but it fits.

What? If she needs him, he wants to be there quickly, rather than having to remember that  **oh, yeah, there’s a dog in my kitchen** .

Why aren’t they calling? Shit, nothing’s gone wrong, right? They said they were pretty sure--but shit happens and--

His phone rings. Twenty minutes later, he’s walking into the clinic to meet with the mild-mannered vet that took her initially.

“We set her leg, stitched her face up,” he says. “She’s hardy. She has been bred before--”

“I figured.”

The vet nods.

“She’s also suffering some malnutrition. I’d recommend a bland diet for a week or two before introducing regular dog food.” Ah, Google came through for him. “Keep her warm and off that leg, but if she wants to get up and move around, she can if you’re there to support her. Try to keep her down, though.”

“Will do.”

“Okay. I’m gonna send you home with a week’s worth of pain medication for her, and a ‘scrip for more, but I’d like to see her back next Friday-ish to see how she’s doing.”

“I can do that. Thanks for, um, I know this is kind of short notice, but I didn’t…” He sighs. “There were a lotta dogs there and I didn’t know if they’d even bother with her.”

“Hm.” The man’s lip curls. “You said she was a bait dog?”

“I think so.”

“Some people are scum...c’mon back. She’s probably a little groggy, but she should be awake.”

‘Groggy’ is not the word he’d use; the dog’s high as a damn kite, bug-eyed and a little drooly. She’s clean, though; turns out she’s a gray dog. Her ears are cropped-shitty job, looks like-and there’s stitches going across her nose to her right cheek. Her leg’s in a pink cast, and when she sees him, her tail starts  **going** .

“Hey, baby,” he says, reaches out a hand for her to sniff. “You ready to get outta here?” The tail smacks the bars of the crate. Christ. He’s suddenly so glad he got that seventy-five dollar dog bed. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

**THE END**


	43. Moral Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pits were once known as ‘nanny dogs’. Our Edgar, for what it’s worth, is a lousy nanny, but we’ve all got faults and that’s okay.

Jason stumbles through his window at two in the morning, left hand clutching his side. Somebody got lucky with a knife, nothing awful-awful, but it needs stitches. He’s going to have to be careful stretching any which way for a little while, maybe no tug-of-war with the dog.

Lemon tries to follow him into the bathroom, bumping at his leg with that big head of hers, and he manages to nudge her back and lock her out. Last thing he needs is fur in the cut, or slobber, or whatever. And the bathroom is small. They don’t both fit without a bit of Tetris.

He tosses his jacket into the shower, followed by his hoodie, and starts working at getting his body armor off. Outside, there’s snuffling and a few hesitant scrapes at the door.

“M’okay, baby,” he says. “Just be quiet, okay?”

Almost got it…

There’s a sudden howl from outside. SHIT NO--

“Lemon!” Oh, that does look nasty. “Shh!”

More scraping. Jesus, okay…

He opens the door, just a little so she can’t smash into his side. Not that it stops her from trying; she sees the crack and promptly tries to wedge her head through.

“S’matter, sour girl*?” Frantic whining and more pushing. “You can’t come in, I gotta fix this up. Be quiet, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He tries to shut the door again and she starts howling. Crap. Okay. This...this is a little bad. His neighbors will come for him with mops, he’ll be distracted, she’s clearly miserable...um…

Oh! He got a baby gate, when he was still telling himself she wasn’t permanent, to keep her out of the kitchen. The cast made her a little slippery. It should be under his bed or something...maybe that’ll be a happy medium.

He nudges her out of the way and shuffles, slowly and painfully, into the other room to get it out. It takes him a minute, and it takes him another two to get it so she won’t just knock it down, but finally, finally, she can see him without getting in the way.

It’s unnerving, he decides. She’s literally sitting there, staring at him and periodically nudging the gate to see if it’ll fall down. A task that has once been done in tired silence is now being done in  **awkward** silence. 

“Somebody just got lucky,” he explains, only feeling a little silly about trying to justify himself to a  **dog** . “I was distracted and they came at me with a knife. Nothing to worry about.”

Yeah, he might actually stay in tomorrow, or at least keep it light. Grappling is already kinda painful-his shoulders don’t like it too much-but now? Ngh. He’s ground-bound for a few days at least.

“I’m not gonna die,” he continues. “I’ve had worse. Electricity?  **That** hurts. This’s a. A paper cut compared to that.” More whining. Another nudge. “Almost done, sour girl, then I’ll take you out for the night. Maybe have a smoke.”

There. It’s not pretty, exactly, but honestly, he can’t bring himself to care. What’s one more scar in all the other ones, huh? No one’s going to see it except the dog, and she doesn’t care.

“Lemme just get a shirt on, okay?” He’ll shower when he gets in. It’s always a damn production when he’s got stitches. “It’s cold, I don’t want to go out like this, nobody else wants me to come out like this, it’s just better. And we gotta get your coat on too...and your hat…”

Ten minutes later, he can go outside without frightening the children and Lemon’s bundled up like Randy from  _ A Christmas Story _ . His side’s still numb, but the rest of his body’s aching and he hopes, he really hopes, that this isn’t gonna take a year. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes she has to sniff fifty rocks, gaze at the sky like it holds the answers to life, and try to befriend a beetle. She’s an idiot. He’d fight Bane for her if he had to.

Tonight, it does not take a year. It’s too cold, apparently, because she sulks the entire time and gives him a filthy look when they finally go back in the elevator.

“Don’t give me that look. I told you it was cold,” he says. She huffs at him, tired and wet because everything she does is wet. He’s gotten very good at shielding his food when she shakes her head. “Well, you don’t have to come back out now. Happy?”

After the earlier fiasco, he doesn’t even bother shutting the bathroom door. He just gates her out so she doesn’t try to come into the shower-and she will, given half a chance-and spends a good half hour warming up.

He’ll be honest. It’s kinda nice to come out and find her still there, staring worryingly at the bathroom. Makes him feel fluffy inside.

He feels a little less fluffy when she ignores her fancy-ass dog bed in favor of taking half of his, but at the same time, she’s very warm and there’s something comforting about her settling between him and the window. Nothing’s ever come through it-though there was one time that she woke him barking at it like someone was gonna try-but still. There’s a measure of security there.

“G’night, Lemon,” he mumbles. “Sweet dreams, big girl.”

All in all, he’s had worse patch-up nights.

THE END

  
  
  
  


*While ‘Sour Girl’ is the name of a Stone Temple Pilots song-and Jason knows that-he’s using it here because Lemon, well, eats lemons. She’s not bright. :p


	44. It's Not Paranoia...

“--knock on _this_ door,” Jimmy’s grumbling from the back of the elevator. “You didn’t knock on mine, who knows how long you two were lurking behind me in the dark--”

“Quicher griping, I didn’t get a knock either--”

“You were into it! I know you, you were packed and ready to go in ten minutes, I was _terrorized_ in my own basement--”

“Look, at least you got to be in the A/C,” Trent points out. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, wedged as he is into the corner. “I looked up and he was on my fucking roof--”

“**He** is right here,” the Knight says petulantly. He’s ignored.

“I got a knock,” Mark says. The others roll their eyes and the Knight...shifts. A little.

“That was because of unforeseen complications,” he says. “This is because of a high likelihood of booby traps.”

Antoine sighs. Great. One of **those** people.

They troop out of the elevator, avoiding eye contact with the lady watching them through a cracked door, and head to the apartment at the end of the hall. It’s dark, which makes the red light of the camera very visible.

“So you were just gonna break in?” Mark demands. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. But then we needed you to fix Antoine, so we knocked instead.”

“Shut up, Jimmy.”

“Nah, I’m happy to know.” Mark pats his arm a little too hard to be nice. “Thanks for getting slashed up by a rake.”

“Yeah, it was so much fun.”

**Knock-knock!**

They shut up, because they are, after all, professionals. Nobody answers the door, though, and after two minutes of standing awkwardly in the hall, Jimmy raises a hand and goes, “Maybe nobody’s home.”

The Knight shakes his head. Sure enough, another minute passes and the door creaks open enough for a gun barrel to poke out. Who are they here for? Antoine has visions of some sort of ancient, grizzled veteran with, like, claw marks across his eye and a hatred for the government for leaving him to die or...or something.

“Riley Dylan.” Claw marks. There have to be claw marks. “Can we talk.”

Silence. The barrel goes down, though, and the door opens the rest of the way.

The guy on the other side does not have claw marks. He’s disappointingly normal, like the rest of them (well, Trent and the boss aside). Shorter than Antoine, though, which...okay, it’s a little mean, but good. Being the shortest sucks.

Riley looks up at the boss, expression neutral, before doing something with his hands. Mute, then. Okay. If he decides to come along, he’ll spend some time on YouTube or something.

That said-and he only knows a little bit of baby sign language because his sister was into it-whatever this guy just said, Antoine’s pretty sure it was something about clowns. He might die instead; the boss has a. A **thing** about clowns. Nobody’s sure what it is, but they’re not dumb enough to ask.

The Knight laughs, incredulous even with the modulator, and goes, “Did you just call me an assclown?*”

What.

Riley pales before breaking out in a very wide grin and stepping back to let them in. There’s a gun in the umbrella stand, a...mechanism...that looks like it’ll do something bad if the door’s opened from the outside (how does this guy go out? maybe he doesn’t.) and no less than five locks on the back of the door. The apartment’s well-lit otherwise, but the large window in the living room has a handgun attached to it.

Jimmy, as ever, is the one to ask about it.

“So, does that like, go off if you try to force it open?” Riley nods. “Man, what the hell? This is like _Home Alone_, but R-rated.”

He shrugs and flops onto the couch, makes a sort of, _whaddaya want _gesture. The Knight decides to talk to what is, frankly, one of the ugliest portraits Antoine has ever seen in his life rather than to the man on the couch.

“I’m building an army,” he says, and ah, he’s starting to get a bit of a spiel going. Ten to one the next thing is something about killing Batman. “The end goal is to invade Gotham City and kill the Batman.” 

Called it.

Riley makes a sharp noise that can only be translated as, **bullshit**. So not, like, totally mute, then? Huh. Whatever. He doesn’t respond otherwise, though, just shakes his head and leans back, arms flung over the back of the couch, looking, honestly, a little bit smug. The Knight doesn’t turn around when he continues.

“The people I’m looking for have a particular set of skills and experiences.” He runs a finger along the bottom of the picture frame. “You have a reputation as a sniper, but I’m a little more interested in your, ah, stealth skills.” Riley’s a little less smug now, and a lot more wary. The Knight tends to have that effect on people. “Though I’ll admit, the picture’s impressive. Is it acid or a bullet that comes at me if I move it?”

What the fuck? Where did the Knight find this guy?

Riley stands up, cracks his back, and wanders into another room. They all stand there in awkward silence for maybe...five, ten minutes before he comes back with a duffle bag and a backpack. Um. Okay, then.

“So what’s with all the booby traps?” Shut up, Jimmy… “Hobby?”

Riley laughs, genuinely friendly (hopefully…) and turns to face them. His mouth is wide open and it takes a second to realize that he doesn’t have a tongue. Well. Not much of one; there’s a charred stub back there. Jesus _Christ--_

It shuts Jimmy up, anyway. Unfortunately, it gets Mark’s attention.

“The fuck happened? Hot tongs?” Seriously? Yes, apparently; Riley nods. “Why? Talked in class or something?”

Mark, why.

Riley just laughs again, grabs his gun from the umbrella stand, and strolls out into the hall. Fine. You know what, surely this is the weirdest person they’re gonna find, hands down. It doesn’t get worse than having murder traps all over your apartment. It **can’t**.

Right?

THE END

*As far as I can find out, there is not a direct ASL translation for assclown. It was, however, Speaking Riley’s go-to insult and he wasn’t about to give it up; he’s combined the signs for ‘ass’ (donkey) and ‘clown’ to make it, and since Bruce made Jason learn ASL for Robin-ing, he can guess. (Riley’s file may or may not have something that basically translates to ‘mouthy shithead’ in it, which helps.)


	45. Cloudburst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual happening. I thought I was so clever. ‘I’ll get him from atop this hill!’ I said. ‘He’ll never see me!’ I said. But in an attempt to stay locked on, I fell on him, and he absolutely saw me, and I died.  
Intent: dorky comedy. Result: not that. But oh well.

The saving grace of the Cloudburst is that Frank designed it, which means that it’s pretty much invincible and has a ridiculous amount of firepower on it. And it’s fast. But the important thing here is that it’s practically invincible, because, well, the boss can’t drive. Nor should he drive. But he is driving it, and...welp, Batman should probably kiss Bleake Island good-bye.

They tried to prevent this, when the tank was still in production. ‘We’ve got professionals that would be happy to do this’, they said. ‘Really, it’s just driving a tank in circles, just let one of the guys do it’, they said. But nooooo, ‘it’s too dangerous, Batman will show up, blah-blah-blah’.

Come to think of it, that was about the time Frank did some modifications to the armor. 

The tank’s moving at a nice, normal pace right now. There’s not much to see; the three remaining Cobras (‘remaining’, Jesus…), buildings, the occasional body. Certainly no Batmobile.

The Knight’s basically on his own, if something happens to the rest of the Cobras; that crap in the air means no air support of any kind, and the bridges are up and locked. Jimmy offered to lower them again, but the boss said no, so they’re all just...watching and waiting.

It’s been fairly quiet for the last five minutes, which makes the Knight’s furious,  **“What the hell?!”** that much more jarring. Frank hits the line first, barking, “Sir? What’s going on?”

Silence. Then a confused, “He fell on me.”

“What?”

“He fucking-- **there you are!** ”

Uh.

“You heard that, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did he not look up?”

Frank shrugs.

“I mean, he’s in a tank.”

“True.”

There’s a blip on the map that says one of the Cobras is gone. Scarecrow-who is, mercifully, not in here-notices. Figures.

“Your escort is almost gone, Knight.  _ Withdraw _ .”

“No.”

Oh, boy. Here they go again.

Scarecrow is quiet for a minute, but it’s the dangerous quiet that implies he’s taking deep, calming breaths so he doesn’t jam his needles into whoever’s nearby.

“The Cloudburst is not  _ bait _ , Knight. It is  _ mine _ .”

“And Batman is mine.”

They should have just invaded without Scarecrow. They’d be done by now. The boss  **had** the bastard, earlier, that would have finished him.

“I don’t like this,” Frank murmurs, watching the last-last? when did this happen?-Cobra roll towards the GCPD. “He’s out of his depth.”

“How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. He should have ignored Scarecrow earlier, we can take  _ him-- _ ”

There’s a sudden, ominous  **noise** . Antoine doesn’t like that noise.

“What was that--”

“I don’t know--”

“Arkham Knight, come in--”

“Shit.” Frank steps back, hand going for his radio. “Guns are disabled; Jimmy, get the bridges down--sir--”

“I’ll get him.” This is the calmest he’s sounded all night. “Leave the bridges where they are.”

“But--”

“That’s an  **order** . Rogers, don’t you dare. I’ve got him where I want him-- **damn** \--”

All at once, he’s offline.

THE END


	46. Distortion Laced With Spite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a lyric in Alice in Chains’ ‘A Looking in View’. Takes place after ‘Cloudburst’.

Jason wakes to phantom cackles ringing in his ears. He can’t see much more than red blurs-searchlights or…?-and his body’s  **aching** . His throat’s raw and his lungs are tired, like he’s been screaming, and honest-to-God, he just wants to crawl into bed and hide for a week.

Where is he? Shit, his helmet’s intact, right-?

“Boss!”

What now?

“Sir? Shit…Knight’s down, I need immediate assis--”

No, no, helmet’s okay, Batman… **Batman.**

That son of a  **bitch** blew his tank to Kingdom Come (how?), Scarecrow is not gonna be happy…

“Belay that,” he grinds out, sucking deep breaths between his teeth and resolutely  **not** remembering that Batman dragged him out of the ruined tank. Like he had a choice, with his ‘thou shalt not kill’ ‘n all.  **“Drouot.”**

Drouot’s head whips over, face incredulously pissed, but he’s already got a finger to his ear. 

“Change of plans. Stand by.”

Good. Where are they, anyway…he’d managed to dodge Batman, after, and he thinks he remembers trying to go...home? Maybe home. Things are fuzzy. Really, the last thing he remembers hearing is that damn clown screaming,  **MISS ME MISS ME DID YA MISS ME TODDERS?**

Then things had gone dark. If he’d passed out or just blocked everything out is unclear.

“Sir?” Drouot sounds worried. “Sir, what happened?”

“Batman happened,” he seethes, face hot with shame under the helmet. “Cloudburst’s gone.”

They’re on a roof. Well, actually they’re inside a maintenance stairwell on a roof, but Jason’s not sure if he got himself there or if Drouot dragged him there. He doesn’t want to ask. This is bad enough as it is.

“Yeah, we were on the line with you when it went up.” He doesn’t remember...he does remember, a little. Someone had been yelling at him to retreat. “You, uh, you okay, boss?”

For a minute-a crazy, idiotic minute-he wants to tell the truth, say,  _ no, everything hurts, I wanna go home. _ But he can’t, and more importantly, he refuses. He’s fine, he’s handled worse, he just. He needs a minute to get his breath back. That’s all.

“I will be.” He levers himself into a sitting position and just  **breathes** , lungs burning with remnants of Crane’s concoction. “Report.”

Drouot looks a little more inclined to murder him, but he rocks back on his heels and recites, “Scarecrow has temporarily taken command, but mostly that just means he’s giving us all free lectures on ‘the physiology of fear’ and threatening Batman over the billboards.” Jackass. “We have attempted-mostly successfully-to regroup; two new watchtowers have been assembled, but no checkpoints until we determine the gas situation. Drones have been redeployed. Minimal casualties-a handful of stubborn ones refused to get to higher ground, last I heard the survivors were en route to Medical-though there’s maybe...thirty people...unaccounted for.” Great. “There are rumors that Poison Ivy died attempting to clear the toxin, but those are unsubstantiated. There’s been no sign of Batman, but Commissioner Gordon was taken hostage-unharmed, as specified-maybe twenty minutes ago and transported back to base.” Something screeches overhead. “I don’t know what that is and I don’t care.”

So. Could be worse. He’s not sure what to think about Ivy; she never...she wasn’t like the others, but she did try to feed him to a plant once, so. He’s pretty sure it was a bluff.

Later. He’ll process that later.

His vision’s coming back, a little. Very little. He wouldn’t jump a roof right now or anything.

“What are you doing here?”

Drouot points to what...might be?...a helicarrier hovering nearby. Ah. That’s the source of the red light, then.

“Drone picked you up. I said I’d investigate while we wait for the medical chopper.”

There’s a reason for that, Jason knows; Drouot’s one of the few privy to what happens if he’s startled awake. Jones is the other, and since he’s not here...sure enough, further inspection turns up a broom sitting suspiciously close by.

“Want to get up there, or stay here?” He should get up there, tell Scarecrow to get back under some kid’s bunk bed and try to get this back under control. And he will. Just. In a minute, when he’s not going to puke if he stands up. “Medic’s only a couple minutes out.”

“Jones’ll be. Upset. F’I move.”

“He will.”

God, he’s hurting. Feels like he’s gone a round with Bane and lost. Hell, his damn  **skin** hurts, the air around it stabbing into his pores (into the brand) like knives. He’s not sorry about the ultimate fate of the Cloudburst; he said that was crazy. Agreed to it, which says something about him, but he didn’t like it. Had fought with Scarecrow over pretty much all of it; the loose end that was Stagg, the fact that it wouldn’t kill Batman anyway, so why bother…

He blanks out a little, gets distracted by his own breathing, only to be jerked back to reality by Jones suddenly being in his bubble and snapping, “The hell was that?”

“Hmm?”

“The hell was that bullshit-I swear to God, one of these days--”

“M’okay.” He can’t-he  **can’t** -go through the usual Toxin Exam. Not here and certainly not now. “M’okay. Just a little dizzy, it’s wearin’ off.”

“Oh-ho, you think it is. I’ll be the judge of that.” He shrugs his backpack off. “Glove off.”

Oh. This is the scaled-down version. He swallows a wave of warmth but tugs his glove off, hands only shaking a little. 

“O-kay...stay still for me, sir…”

What else is he supposed to do?

The car is the problem. It was a new model, literally cropped up over the last month or so, but with Gotham being so quiet, nobody had seen the ‘transforming tank’ thing coming. If he wants Bruce gone, the car has to go first. But nothing has...touched...it…

He has one last toy. This really is the contingency to end contingencies; last year, they had...acquired...a tunnel borer, when they were setting up base in Killinger’s. He’d had Clyde do some fixes, make it go a little faster. That could take out that damn car, could grind it to rubble.

He just has to get to it before Bruce does.

He struggles to his feet, much to Jones’ irritation, and pulls his glove back on.

“Hey-!”

“Told ya. M’fine.” Neither of them look convinced, which is hurtful. “We’re heading back to base.”

“Base-base?”

“Base-base.” Standing is hard. “We’ll get him this time.”

THE END


	47. Beggar, Pick Up Your Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Jerry Cantrell’s ‘Siddhartha’. Takes place the day after ‘Out of Hell’.
> 
> Happy birthday, Jason!

Jason wakes from the...he’s thinking the third-best nights’ sleep he’s had in his whole life. First one was...pfft, one’a those random nights, Mom had been feeling okay, and they’d stayed up to see the sunrise and made s’mores on the stove. Second had been after his first. His. Patrol. First patrol.

He has no idea what time it is, and he’s afraid to open his eyes, lest last night turn out to be a dream. He stays still for the moment, concentrating on the cheap hotel mattress under his still-aching body, the smell of complimentary soap and cleaner and that lingering _ people have been born, had sex, and probably died in this room _ smell that these sorts of places have. He can hear rain and traffic and general Gotham Living outside and in the rooms around him.

And he’s **hungry**.

Okay. Okay. He’s woken up out of nice dreams before, and it hurts, but. But he can do it again. One more time.

_ Please… _

He cracks his eyes open.

The room is beige and...rusty orange...and very bright. Well, bright to him, anyway. It’s empty, but he rolls over and, muscles protesting the whole time, peers under the bed. Zilch.

Still unconvinced he’s not hallucinating or unwillingly playing one of the clown’s head games, Jason stumbles out of the warm bed, ankle cracking horribly when he makes it take his weight, and shuffles to the bathroom. Nothing. Nothing in the shower, or wedged into the little cabinet under the sink. He’s alone here.

He lets his breath out slowly, slumping forward against the sink to take some of the pressure off his ankle. He’ll have to look at it later, look at everything later, but...but not now. Not this second, huh?

His hair’s too long; his bangs are in his eyes and he can feel dead ends scraping the back of his neck. No way in hell is he letting anyone near him with scissors. That’s okay. He did self-trims when he was a kid.

He’s out.

He’s **out**, he’s free of that monster. That bastard’s never going to hurt him ever again. The thought makes him lightheaded, brings an unfamiliar twist to his lips that feels like it might be a smile.

And then he makes the mistake of looking up at the mirror.

The boy-no, he’s not a boy anymore, is he-looking back at him looks **dead** . He’s pasty white, thin and hollow-cheeked with no spark to his eyes. There’s cuts and gashes all over his face, his nose is crooked, and...and there’s that. The brand on his face, the one that still hurts, the one that screams to the world, **PROPERTY OF THE JOKER, IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN!**

_ I’ll never get away from him. _

The mirror shatters under his fist, shards jabbing in between his knuckles and falling into the sink and bouncing off the counter to hit the tiles by his feet. He doesn’t care. He can’t face this he can’t face this he **can’t**\--

This is too much for his ankle; it buckles and then he’s kneeling in the glass, sobbing so hard it’s silent and hurts his throat and chest. He chokes, doubles over so’s his forehead’s pressed against his knees, bites down on his lips to try and...and…

Willis always said, ‘boys don’t cry’. Bruce hadn’t...he’d never known what to do with tears. Or any outpouring of emotion, for that matter. And Joker had loved them. But Jason? Right now, he doesn’t care about any of that. He wants Mom, but Mom can’t be here anymore.

It takes him several minutes to register that the tears have stopped and that he’s just...huddled here on the floor with glass jutting out of his skin. The glass doesn’t hurt, but his ankle does and he slowly and **carefully** brings it up to investigate.

It’s swollen and hot to the touch and it...something about it doesn’t look quite right. He’ll wrap it, he decides, he’ll get a compression bandage or something later today. Okay. He’s okay. He’s just gotta breathe, get up, clean this mess up because he was raised better than to leave this shit for the housekeeper, and then...if he is where he thinks he is, there’s a bodega two blocks south, one that has a gray tabby that lounges in the window. They’ll have a thing of chips or something he can choke down (safely), maybe bandages. Definitely a hoodie, at least, a nice touristy hoodie.

He can make it two blocks. Like he’s got a choice, but he can make it two blocks.

* * *

The smell of rotting watermelons, cheap ice cream bars, and packaged bread is possibly one of the best things Jason’s ever smelled in his life. He’s **starving**, and now, confronted with food choices, he knows he’s gonna have to exercise some restraint and not just devour a stale baguette in the middle of the store. Crackers. And maybe a soup-cup-thing, that’s mild. And, uh, cranberry juice, yeah, that’s sorta healthy. And a Reese’s. If the Reese’s makes him sick, it’ll be worth it.

The owner is dancing lightly to the mariachi on the radio and the cat is more interested in the birds outside than in him, which means he can limp through the store on his own sweet time. They do have bandages, and the food he thinks he can do, and a red hoodie* proclaiming, **I Survived Gotham**. It’ll do.

What’s worrying him-apart from, you know, everything else-is where he found money last night. He doesn’t remember a damn **thing** after leaving Arkham, and it scares him. Mystery for later, though, because he’s hungry and grateful he doesn’t have to rob the bodega man, who-miracle of miracles-doesn’t so much as look up at him. He pulls the hoodie on the second he’s outside, though, tugs the hood up to try and cover the damn thing at least a little.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He can’t go back to **him**-he’ll die first-and he can’t...s’like they say, you can never go home again. If Wayne Manor was ever home. 

_ Left me he left me with him he said he’d always be there and he fucking _ ** _left me with that bastard--_ **

He just doesn’t know what to do.

He stumbles back into the hotel room, debates on whether or not he wants to use the grody microwave provided, and decides that yes, yes he does. This will be the first real food he’s had in over a year and he wants to try and enjoy it, if that’s possible.

Man, he hasn’t had one of these in...geeze, since before Mom died. They’re not Old Money Approved, after all. Good. He’s not Old Money Approved, either.

It’s done, he decides, when it pops and the lid gets all soft and hot. It smells okay. Safe, anyway, no hint of Joker venom or any other little surprises. The steam curls around his face, making the...the burn a little tender, but it’s fine. It’s fine. He bought it all sealed up and he’s the only one who’s touched it. He took off the safety tin.

So why can’t he eat it? His appetite’s vanished, even though he knows he needs to eat, it’s just…

**You gotta eat, baby.**

That sounds like Mom, and it should be concerning, but...he does need to eat. And he can’t just chug it, either, much as he’d like to get it over with. He’s gotta be slow and careful.

Cracker! He’ll dip a cracker in.

The soup’s hot and salty on his tongue, miles above the slop he’s been eating in the asylum. Once he swallows the slightly soggy cracker, his appetite returns with a vengeance and it’s an effort not to pour half the column of crackers in, smash them to bits with the spoon, and eat the resulting mush here and now. But he can’t. He’ll be sick. Hell, he might be sick anyway, who knows.

He dunks another cracker in, catches a wispy noodle on it this time. Jesus. Jesus Christ, this is it, he’s living on soup and crackers forever, this is the best thing he’s eaten in his **life**\--

\--no. No it isn’t, is it. Alfred. Alfred made…

**Not now. Just eat.**

That’s right. He can’t think about anything, that’s not...he’s spent a long time, trapped in his own head. Not now. He can’t do that now. Food first.

The soup goes down easily enough, the cran juice a little less so but it stays in, and then he has to admit that **yup, time for some self-examination**.

He’s not facing the mirror-or what’s left of it-again. It’s better to stay here, to strip off despite knowing that hotel beds are scuzzy, and, well, survey the damage. And there is a **lot** of damage. Burn scars, wire scars, marks he can’t even begin to trace. He doesn’t really want to know what his back looks like, but he’ll have to find out.

Further poking the ankle says that oh, sure, it’s...healing, or maybe as good as it’s gonna get, but that squeezing certain spots of it makes his vision go white and over-manipulating it is worse than that. He puts the bandage on it, because what else can he do, and struggles back into his clothes. No more. He can’t do more right now.

* * *

Jason does not mean to fall into a fitful sleep, but that’s what happens. He wakes up gasping and soaked in sweat, a man’s shouting echoing in his ears. Sounds like Willis.

After a minute of lying here, he comes to realize that it isn’t Willis, and it isn’t a dream. It’s...lobby, something’s going on in the lobby.

Shit.

It’s hard to move as steathily as he used to, but he’s still quieter than the average schmuck when he slips out of bed and opens the door to creep down the hall. It’s late, which means the clerk should be alone, which makes them easy pickings. People never change, much as Batman insists that they do.

The shouting man has a gun. He’s wearing a scarf around the lower half of his face and he’s actually kinda big. Looks plenty comfortable threatening a woman half his size.

He doesn’t think, just moves; grabs one of the little chairs near the doors and hurls it

**Owowowow not good movement not good**

at the man’s back. He trips, gun falling from his fingers and sliding under the desk. The woman, wisely, ducks.

“What the fuck--oh, we got us a Batman-wannabe.” The guy cracks his back. “Come on, then, hero.”

He’s out of practice. Doesn’t mean he’s helpless. He dodges the oncoming haymaker and retaliates by going straight for the jugular.

Or, in this case, the balls. Fighting fair does not get you far in life.

The bravado vanishes. It’s hard to be badass when you’re shrieking like a little girl with your testicles twisted in a fist. Jason lets go, headbutts him to get him down, and steps around him to fish the gun out from under the desk.

“Get the hell out of here,” he says, more out of breath than he should be after that. His shoulders hurt from the throw. That can’t be good. “Or pray to God **Batman** shows up to save you in the next thirty seconds.”

“You son of a bitch--”

“Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven--”

“I’ll kill you!”

He cocks the gun. Little awkwardly, it’s true-Bruce taught him the absolute bare minimum of gun handling-but it gets his point across.

“Twenty-six. Twenty-five.”

The man can’t quite get upright, but he manages to hobble outside. Jason doesn’t chase after him. He’s shaking, a little, and the gun’s awkward in his hand.

“Thank you.” Oh. Yeah. He forgot about her. “I don’t know--he wanted money, I guess--”

“Don’t they all.” He doesn’t turn around. He can’t; he’s way too identifiable. “You’re welcome.” Back to his room it is, to get his crap and clear out. “I’m gonna check out before the cops show.”

“I’m not calling them.” Huh. “They never come. That’s the third time in two months we’ve had someone in here.”

Figures.

He doesn’t answer-what do you say, huh?-, just shuffles back to his room. He doesn’t realize, until the door’s locked behind him, that he’s still got the gun.

Well, he figures, as he stumbles back towards the bed, at least if Joker manages to track him here, he won’t have to go back. He’ll kill the clown or himself, it doesn’t matter which, but he’s not going back.

He crawls under the blankets this time, tries to get a little more comfortable. It must work, because in five minutes, he’s out. Nothing wakes him this time.

THE END

*Arkham!Jason has a fondness for red hoodies even pre-Red Hood; both baby Jay and grown-up Jay are shown wearing one in the prequels. For obvious reasons. :p


	48. Meet the Family

Jason is, honestly, not expecting to hobble out of the shower, shirt in hand, to find Batman backed against the kitchen counter courtesy of the dog. He vaguely recalls hearing barking, but he’d yelled at her to be quiet-nothing short of Judgement Day was going to drag him out of his hot shower-and that had been the end of it.

Although, to be fair, there’s a chunk of cape hanging out of her mouth. And she’s pissed; Jason forgets, because she loves to be hefted up and rocked like the world’s ugliest baby, that Lemon’s  **big** . Ninety-five pounds* of muscle and teeth on his girl, with a deep growl that makes her sound even bigger. And sure, he’ll own it; tug-of-war is a pretty even match.

“What d’you want, Bruce.” He pulls his shirt over his head and makes his way, slowly and painfully, into the kitchen. Oof...maybe, just maybe, telling Ivy he had weed killer was a mistake. It was necessary, because those damn maneaters of hers had started encroaching on the Alley-and the kids therein-but maybe he should have tried for a little more tact. Or at least requested that the plants be kept in the Diamond District. 

Next time.

“Is she yours.”

“Came with the apartment,” he snarks. “Alfred know you didn’t call ahead?”

“I did.” What. “You didn’t answer, and your...disagreement...with Ivy made the five o’ clock news.”

Ah, that’s Bruce-speak for,  _ I was convinced you were bleeding out on the floor. _ Jason wonders if he did that thing he used to do, where he’d call twenty times in twenty minutes while breaking every speed limit known to man and panicking.

“Shower.”

“I noticed.”

“Of course you noticed. They don’t call you the world’s greatest detective for nothin’.” He gives Lemon a quick poke to the shoulder. “S’all right, sour girl. He’s harmless.”

He tilts a little and yeah, there’s no hiding the tear in his cape. This is great. He’s framing the scrap, maybe he’ll get a little plaque made saying, like,  _ Cape of Batman, Obtained During Home Invasion _ . 

Something along those lines, anyway.

“When.”

“You never did learn how to use the question tone, huh?” Oi. He’s hurtin’ tonight, looking forward to getting to bed. “About three months. Picked her up out of a dog fighting ring.”

Bruce is silent, but it’s an assessing one. Jason supposes it’s not totally his fault, being cornered and all like he is, but jeeze. He lost the want for a paranoid parent the first time Joker broke his collarbone. Send a text and chill the hell out.

Well, Bruce can stand there and think about things, but Jason would like his dog to let go of the scrap before she manages to eat it. He’d also like to sit down.

“Gimme this.” He gives it an experimental tug. There is no giving. “Lemon. Drop it.” She gives him a dirty look. “It’s not food, let go.”

Thankfully, they don’t have a repeat of the Banana Peel Incident. She lets it go-oh, jeeze, it’s wet and disgusting-and he drops it on his kitchen chair rather than hold it.

“Thank you.” He pulls on her shoulder, but she doesn’t budge. Whatever. “I’m gonna siddown, Bruce. You can make yourself comfortable or not, but I’m tired.”

“Is anything broken.”

“No. M’just sore, that’s all.”

Honestly, he’s expecting Bruce to vanish now that he’s seen what he came for. But he doesn’t; he follows Jason into the other room. Honestly, it’s a little unnerving.

“I didn’t know you wanted a dog.”

“I didn’t.” The dog in question hefts herself onto the sofa next to him. “I couldn’t just leave her there. She was hurt, an’ her face was all mangled, and I…”

**I know what that feels like,** he doesn’t say. Thankfully, Bruce either gets it or doesn’t feel the need to push.

“Are you hungry?”

He has to laugh, even after all this time. Bruce makes that weird exhale that’s his version of a laugh, too.

“A little,” he admits. “I mean, if you wanted to apologise for upsetting my dog, you could go get me Batburger.”

Even after all these years, Bruce still manages to...vanish. Seriously, Jason blinks and he’s gone. Fine.

“He’d better remember I hate warm burger-pickles,” he tells Lemon, who kindly drools on his leg. “But I guess you can have ‘em if he doesn’t.”

THE END

  
  
  


*I have never seen a ‘purebred’ pit this big; Lemon is not one, however. She has some American Bulldog in there, hence her size.


	49. Get Me Out of Gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-indulgent bullshit written, partly, while logging ‘cat-social-hours’, a phrase which here means, ‘sitting outside with a semi-feral cat to get him acclimated to his new home’. (The cat is nice, just skittish around people. He’s getting there.)

Nicole was going to see a therapist. She’d hit it off with a really nice man that had come in one night, even. He’d been a tall, thin man with a quiet demeanor and with nothing but five minutes and a few soft sentences, she’d been convinced he could help her with the nightmares and the paranoia.

But then she’d popped into the kitchen for somebody’s order and the chef had told her to stay away from him, that he was some freak called the Scarecrow who scared people literally to death for shits and giggles and science.

“But he said he’s a psychiatrist,” she’d said helplessly.

“Yeah. Used to be one, over at Arkham. Look, you wanna claw your own eyes out, that’s your business, but I’d stay away from him.”

So no therapy. She’ll get some, she decides, when she goes home. Six more months. She’s made it this long, right?

Six months, though. She still wakes up three nights a week. Sometimes the man shoots her in the head, sometimes the Red Hood advances on her next, intoning, “Let the punishment fit the crime.”

Sometimes she just has to run from him, but that faceless red mask is always a few steps behind her, like Michael Myers.

But. She’s. She’s doing okay, all things considered. She bought some pepper spray. She followed Batwatch and the GCPD on Twitter to help avoid anything major. Most people, her coworkers say, don’t see the vigilantes that often. Robin’s the most common one, then Batman, then Red Hood. Batgirl hasn’t been seen for years, she’s probably out of action. Sometimes someone (something?) called Nightwing pops into town, but he mostly operates in Bludhaven. So odds are she’ll be fine, right? Go to work, then stick to nice, normal places like Starbucks and Wal-Mart. Chains, she thinks, are key. Don’t be a local and it’s safer.

But she still hates walking under the skylight.

Taking out the trash sucks, too; the alley’s dark and cramped and it smells like death and rotting McDonald’s. And there’s rats, big ones that don’t scatter when she shakes the bag at them. Sometimes there’s a raggedy old cat with a torn ear and one eye, but it’s mean.

Tonight the lighting’s worse than ever. Their bulb’s out, apparently, and the neon sign across the street has a few letters not working, so all she’s got is a flashing purple girl and three blue ‘M’s. But that’s okay, because the dumpster’s literally ten steps from the door. It’s okay.

It’s not okay. She’s just hefting the bag up to try and hurl it in when the flashing neon goes sort of red in the corner of her eye. She drops the bag, already trying to tell herself it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing. The Red Hood’s slouched against the wall not three feet away. He raises his head, slow and deliberate, and rasps, “Who are you.”

Shit.

“I just. I just work here--I wait tables! Just tables! Please--”

“I’m not gonna hurt ya.” He sets his head back against the bricks. “Finish whatever you came out for and go back in. I was never here.”

Okay. Okay.

She bends down, picks up the bag, and inches towards the dumpster. Hood doesn’t move, but she thinks he’s watching her. She heaves the bag into the dumpster and steps away from him as fast as possible. And then she trips over her own feet and lands on her ass.

“Shit--”

“You okay?” The head moves again, still slow. “Need help up?”

Fuck no.

“No! No thank you. I’m. I’m just clumsy, I swear, I--”

“Breathe, kid.”

She shuts up, scrambles to her feet and tries to brush herself off. She’s just feeling for leftover gravel when the door opens and Dove’s annoyed voice says, “Hon, what are you  _ doing _ out here--Hood?”

He waves.

“Hi, Miss Marquis.”

“What’s up?”

“Think I scared, uh…”

“Nicole.” No! No! Don’t tell the scary man her name! “Out-of-towner.”

“Oh.” He sounds like he’s trying to be nice when he tilts towards her and says, “Sorry.”

“What are you doing out here?” Dove demands. “It’s late as it is.”

“Flouting authority,” Hood says, shrugging towards the  **No Loitering** sign behind him. “Yknow. Stickin’ it to the man.”

Nicole flashes back to the robbery. Can she go in? He’s not talking to her anymore, will he care? Is it safe? Maybe she should tell someone to tell Penguin. Or, like, the cops.

Dove coughs. Or maybe that’s her trying to hide a laugh, Nicole can’t tell.

“What  **else** are you doing out here, kiddo.”

What.

That thing is no  **kiddo** . He’s huge! He kills people! 

_ Why did I think Gotham University was a good move? I got accepted into two other ones, why did I come here? _

Hood’s silent for a minute, like he’s nervous or something. Nicole wonders if she can sneak back inside and hide in the bathroom.

“I got Pyg. Like. He won’t. He can’t hurt anyone else.”

Pyg? Who’s Pyg? Is he dead? Is he human?

Whoever he is, Dove must know, because she goes very still before saying, voice rough and ten years older, “You’re  _ sure? _ ”

“Pretty sure he’s not gonna grow a new head,” Hood says quietly. “So. Yeah. M’sure.”

So it was another person. That Hood murdered. Great. How many freaks are in this town? Pyg was  **not** in the warning brochure she got with her college acceptance letter! He wasn’t even in the Google search!

Dove sighs and fidgets with the brace on her left wrist, and right about now Nicole wonders, again, where that came from. She’d asked, initially, but Dove had waved her off, said something about a mugger and goddamn meat-packing district with lazy beat cops, and she’d let it go.

“--sure you’re good? You’re movin’ kinda careful.”

“Storm’s coming.” So what, he’s got arthritis or something? “M’good. Just crackly.”

“Then go home before you get shot. Or worse.”

“M’fine--”

“I am going to worry and I am going to be upset and if I have to, I’ll call Harvey and have him tell Jim to call Batman on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“See what happens.”

Nicole has no idea what’s happening here. 

Hood’s silent for a few seconds, like he’s thinking things over.

“You would.”

“I would.”

He sighs, slumps a little more, and grumbles, “I’ll turn in early. Promise.”

“Thank you.” Dove turns to Nicole, jerks her head towards the door. “C’mon. Back to work for us. And you.” She jabs a finger at Hood. “You take care of yourself for once.”

“I always take care of myself!”

“Bullshit. Go home, kid. I mean it.”

He tips his head like he wants to shrug but can’t, says, “Thanks for the tip on that bastard.”

“Kinda wish I hadn’t picked it up,” Dove says dryly. “Home. Or I really will get Batman called on you.”

Nicole blinks and Hood’s just  **gone** , like he was never there at all. Dove gives her a nudge back towards the door.

“Um…”

“Hm.”

“Mugger?”

“Always carry mace in this town.”

She does. But still.

You know what, no. No. She doesn’t wanna know, she’s not gonna go home and Google ‘Pyg’ or anything at all, she’s gonna go home and lock all the doors and hide under the covers and try not to have nightmares about rolling heads and gunshots.

Christ, why did she come here?

THE END


	50. Screw Piña Coladas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thing that takes place after ‘R&B’s P’. For fun!

Juanita eyes the group with apprehension. It’s not that there’s a lot of them-they get largeish groups from Gotham all the time, usually from the mob-but it is a  **little** weird, because these guys aren’t mobsters. But no, it’s mostly the one they haven’t let out of their sight since they got here. He’s a kid, or close, and, well, the hovering makes her wonder if he’s, like...not here willingly.

You know.

And it’s just...a couple of days ago, a very drunk, very belligerent guest had been getting on one of the waiters-just one of those things, happens too often but hey-and the kid had gotten involved. The guest had backed off, made a run for it when some of the others had showed up, and the kid had promptly been manhandled into a chair.

Weird. It’s just a weird situation all around and she doesn’t like it.

Today’s her lucky day. They’re all outside, and the kid’s sprawled in one of the sun loungers with a book. The others are either nowhere to be seen or in the water-two of them are attempting to dunk the big one in the surf, but so far he hasn’t so much as slid in the sand. They’re far enough away, though, that if she acts casual about it, she should be able to approach the kid without drawing suspicion. She works here. She has to check in with the guests, make sure everything’s all good, yes?

Up close, he looks terrible; sickly pale, with cuts and bruises mottling what little skin’s visible. He’s not dressed like a normal tourist, either, instead going with long, loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt that clings to the outlines of bandages wrapped around his midsection. He’s got a knee brace, too, a good one, and that explains, at least a little, why he’s usually got someone with him. The only normal thing he’s wearing is the pair of large, mirrored sunglasses that do very little to hide or even obscure the brand on his cheek.

She thinks he’s asleep, at first, but then she takes one more step and his head snaps sideways, sunglasses barely hanging on.

“Sorry to startle you,” she says, trying for an easygoing smile. She gets a shy one in return.

“Not your fault. Did you need something?”

“Just checking in. Would you like a drink, or a snack? Our shrimp cocktail--”

“That’s not what you wanted,” he says gently. Fine.

“Are you okay?” Okay, it’s blunt, but still. “Because we can absolutely get you out of this situation if you’re not.”

The kid laughs and sinks back, one arm draped carefully across his ribs.

“I appreciate it. Really, I do. But I’m not a-oi!” In the water, the big man has finally turned on the other two and is carrying one of them out to sea. “If he drowns, I drive back!” Whatever that’s about, it stops the guy cold and he hurls his cargo into an oncoming wave. The kid sighs and mutters something about idiots before turning back to her. “They didn’t kidnap me, I promise. Thanks for the concern, though. Means a lot.”

If he says so…

“You okay, sir?”

_ Eep! _

She’s brushed aside by a man with a backpack, who crouches down and unzips it.

“I’m fine. Just getting a drink.”

“No alcohol,” the man warns. The kid’s eyebrows go up like he’s rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“I’m not,” he grumbles, then turns to her and gives her a more confident smile. “C’n I get a raspberry lemonade, though?”

“Sure thing. Anything for you, sir?”

“No, thanks.” He sounds distracted. “You take your antibiotics?”

“Thought I had to take ‘em with food.”

“It’s like you’re  **trying** to die.”

“I’m not-!” The kid sighs. “C’n I get some of those fried plantains with that?” The man gives him a hard stare. “Those are food!”

“I am this close to dragging you back to the hotel--”

“Don’t, they’re already worried you idiots kidnapped me--”

“We didn’t,” the man says to her, and it’s the most unconvincing thing she’s ever heard. “There. Now come on, you have to eat something else.”

“I’ll eat more at dinner, I’m not hungry.”

“Fine. But if you puke, I’m going to say I Told You So.”

“You say that anyway.”

“Shut up.” Out of nowhere, a bottle slaps against the kid’s palm. “If I had my way, you’d still be in a nice, sterile hospital bed. Do  **not** push it.”

“Okay, okay. That’ll be it, thanks.”

“That’ll be right out.”

When she gets back, maybe fifteen minutes later, the man with the backpack is gone and the kid’s asleep, sunglasses halfway down his nose and the paperback splayed across his chest. He’s not alone; one of the men from the water is lounging next to him, slathering sunscreen on his arms.

“What do-oh. Step back. Hey, boss?” No response. The guy grimaces, mutters, “This is gonna suck,” and leans over to poke the kid’s elbow. 

The reaction is sudden and explosive; his hand shoots up to grab the man’s wrist and he pulls himself halfway up, sunglasses falling off his face and book tipping into the sand. His...friend...just stays still for a minute before nudging at his shoulder with his free hand.

“Hey. S’okay. S’just me.”

“Drouot…?”

“Yeah. Mark’s gonna pitch a fit if you don’t take your meds, so, uh, wakey-wakey.”

The kid lets go and sinks back, breathing hard, before leaning down to rescue his book and his sunglasses.

“Sorry.”

The guy-Drouot-waves a hand.

“I hate to wake you up, but, uh. Yeah. Mark’s scary.”

The kid visibly bites back  **something** , if the mischievous grin is anything to go by.

“Mm-hm. Thanks.”

“Can I get anybody anything else?”

“I’m good.”

“I’ve got a  piña  colada coming,” Drouot says. The kid gives him a look that promises murder.

“If you sing so much as one line, I swear on God, you’ll be another missing tourist.” He leans up to take his food from her. “I mean it. One. Line.”

Great, now that song will be in her head for a year. She’s with the kid on this one.

“I do not want this,” he’s saying now. Then a wheedling, “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

“He’s gonna know, and he’s gonna be pissed. I’m open to fighting, like, Batman--” The kid snorts. “--but Mark will literally murder me if you try to get out of it, so. Sorry, sir.”

“You should have left me to die,” the kid groans, before handing her a handful of bills. “It looks nice. Thanks.”

“Enjoy!”

She’s not far when Drouot receives his  piña  colada. She knows this because he hums a few bars, resulting in a furious,  _ “I wasn’t kidding--” _

“If you rip your stitches--”

“You’ll go down for it, because you provoked me.”

“That’s fair.”

Aaaand there it is. The song’s in her head now. Thanks a lot, asshole.

THE END


	51. Bah, Humbug

The boss is upset.

Well. ‘Upset’ is maybe not the best word. Neither is ‘grumpy’, ‘cross’, or even, ‘unamused’. No, Antoine thinks, the best word for this situation is, ‘butthurt’.

It’s his own fault. At least, they think it is. They’re pretty sure he built his helmet. He certainly agreed to go to this cold-ass place for a job. And it could be worse.

…

Well, maybe. Physically, yes. Mentally? Emotionally? No. Not much.

The Knight’s pointy ears act as transmitters for his radio and whatever he has going on in there. They’re short, semi-fragile, and-as they all found out yesterday-not fond of ice. And by ‘not fond of ice’, Antoine means, ‘they short-circuited and frosted over in the snow’.

That was yesterday. They’re out in the middle of nowhere-some cold cabin, the less said, the better-and the boss fixed them at some point, but...they still don’t like cold. Which means he had to insulate them with what he could find.

In short, he’s wearing a Santa hat, white pom-pom and all.

They tried to be professionals. Oh, God, did they try. It’s just.

It’s the Arkham Knight. He who swan-dives into gunfire like an idiot, who conjures explosives seemingly from nowhere and who once slapped some drug lord upside the head with the literal severed head of the man’s personal bodyguard.

(That had honestly just been brutal, but, well...there’d been kids involved.)

And here he is, looking exactly the same as he always does, save for a heavy coat like they all got and that damn hat.

It’s no wonder he’s sulking.

“So does this make us elves?” Jimmy asks from the other side of the room.

**“Shut up.”**

“Let’s discuss,” Mark says. The Knight huffs but nothing really bad happens. “Okay. So--Antoine, gimme paper, here--”

“Get your own paper.”

“You literally have your sketchbook in your hand.”

Ugh. Fine.

He rips out a piece, mentally mourning the loss of the potential sloth, and folds it into a little paper airplane. What? He’s not getting up for this. It’s too cold.

“There.”

“All right.” There’s the sound of knuckles cracking. “Reasons for Elf-dom: lay ‘em on me.”

“We’re in the damn North Pole,” Trent grumbles. The Knight sighs.

“Technically--”

“It’s cold an’ empty. It’s the North Pole.”

“Acceptable,” Mark says, scribbles it down. “What else.”

“Riley might be a real elf,” Jimmy says. This is followed by a yelp and a, “ _ Artemis Fowl  _ style! That’s not bad!”

“Valid.”

The room is silent, the only sounds being the crackling of the fire and the crunching of the peanut brittle Frank’s eating. Antoine wonders who’s going to add the elephant in the room to the list.

_ Christ _ , it’s cold. Even with the fire  **and** the space heater, it’s cold. He trades his sketchbook for the hot chocolate he’s had on the mug warmer and feels life return to his fingertips.

Frank sighs. Shifts. Says, without a drop of shame in his voice, “We got Santa.”

“We got Santa,” Mark agrees. The boss manages to up his brooding to the point that Antoine worries for the window. He’s not sure why, just that it seems possible that one could break a window via brooding at it. Somehow. “Okay, I’m thinking we’re all elves now, so--”

**“You’re all on the damn naughty list,”** the Knight says shortly.  **“Knock it off, someone’s coming.”**

Antoine sees the window. He knows nobody’s coming. Which, combined with his spiked cocoa, makes humming a few bars of ‘Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town’ seem like a good idea.

**“Really.”**

“Sorry, sir.” He is not one bit sorry. The hat is real. “Won’t happen again.”

And he tries to stick to that, honest. But, well...this whole mess ends with them all being nearly trampled by a reindeer-a reindeer!-and, ah…

They’re not good people. None of them are good people. They buy elf hats the minute they’re back in a town with real stores.

THE END


End file.
